


Northern Cross 'Verse

by irisbleufic



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-03
Updated: 2009-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-29 13:11:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 20,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> So I curse you,</i><br/><i>my [Vulcan] heart,</i><br/><i>for letting me love you,</i><br/><i>love you—</i><br/><i>for letting me love you</i><br/><i>from the start</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sorcerer

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this series to fill in the gaps between episodes in Seasons 1 - 3 of _Star Trek: The Original Series_ as I was watching all of the episodes for the very first time during the summer of 2009. 
> 
> The series title is taken from one of [**the songs I was listening to while writing the series**](irisbleufic.livejournal.com/162023.html); the first set of five (Season 1) was guided primarily by Cry Cry Cry's recording of "Northern Cross," the second set of five (Season 2) was guided by Girlyman's "This is Me," and the third set of five (Season 3) was guided by Tom McRae's "My Vampire Heart."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even when close calls are a way of life, they don't tend to lose impact.

_I've gone running from the devil;_  
_at times, I've beaten down his path._  
_I've seen the flight of the dove,_  
_and I've stumbled my way back._

—Northern Cross, Terran traditional

 

*

 

 _Never lose you_ , he'd said to the ship's very walls, to anyone who'd listen. _Never_. 

Thought made breath, both prayer and incantation. And he, Captain James T. Kirk, was not a superstitious man. He'd lost nearly half the bridge crew to lunacy that day, and who the hell knew how many otherwise? That, _that_ was what it had meant to nearly lose his beloved _Enterprise_. She had only ever been the sum of her living crew, of all her dearest parts. Spock, even _Spock_ had been susceptible. If Jim hadn't been able to snap him out of it, and God, but he regretted that slap—

His grief might, indeed, have been comparable to this.

"I miss him, Captain," Angela whispered, bent low over her coffee with brimming eyes.

Jim nodded, hesitantly reaching across the desk to cover her hand. "We all do," he said, wishing he could say, as before, that they had three days to live over again. "Robert was a fine man and a credit to his command. There'll be no replacing him. Angela, if there's anything I can do to help you, will you _please_ tell me?"

She shook her head, squeezing Jim's hand before letting go. "You've done so much already. Dr. McCoy has assigned me to one of his best psych officers, so I'm sure..."

Her sobs descended, harsh and sudden. The first lanced sharply off the walls of Jim's office, more terrible than his childhood memories of thunder echoing across plains weighed down by iron-grey skies. Instinctively, Jim reached for her again, in the very least to take the cup off of her before she scalded herself. She clutched it tighter.

Meanwhile, the soothing tones of Spock's lyre had fallen deafeningly silent.

"Captain."

There, behind him, low and attentive with concern. Spock's hand fell on his shoulder. If somebody had been sensible enough to warn him that prolonged exposure to the nuances of Vulcan speech tended to amplify human vocal obviousness a thousandfold, he might not be sitting here on the verge of tears himself. 

_Goddamn you, Bones_.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Spock," said Angela, struggling to control her voice. "It was lovely of you to—" she wheezed, painfully "—come play for us, but I just _can't_ —"

The touch of Spock's fingertips, until then feather-light, tightened. _Jim?_

"Angela, Mr. Spock will see you to your quarters and make sure you have everything that you need." _And I'll send Bones with the strongest tranquilizer he's got, so help me; your fiancé's death is on my head, and there's no other oblivion I can offer!_

Another fleeting squeeze and Spock's hand was gone, followed by the Vulcan's slow, steady progress around to the other side of the desk. Jim closed his eyes against his fist, hardly daring to look up. Still, look he must: weakness was not becoming.

Spock met his eyes briefly, almost reassuringly, and placed his free hand gently on the girl's upper arm. "If you would prefer to finish your coffee, Miss Martine, perhaps—"

Another of those choked, heartrending sobs—and there wasn't any doubt as to _why_.

Anyone else would have taken the horrified light in Spock's eyes for manic confusion, but Jim understood. Spock knew what he'd said in a moment of carelessness, and there was no unsaying it. Jim locked eyes with him and tried to return the favor. 

_You're doing your best_.

Spock shook his head, almost imperceptibly, and turned his attention back to the grieving young woman. "More than anything else right now, you require rest."

"I'll send Bones, Angela," said Jim, softly. "It's best you go with Mr. Spock."

Angela nodded and set her cup down on the desk, rising to face Spock with surprising dignity. "Yes, I'll go with you," she murmured. "Thank you, Captain."

Jim saw them to the door, holding it wide open. "Any time. If you need _anything_ —"

"She knows where to find you," said Spock, urging her into the corridor with one hand and cradling the lyre to his chest with the other. "And Captain, shall I—?"

"Yes," replied Jim, automatically. "The reports. Return as soon as you're able."

"Sir," Spock said. They rounded the corner soundlessly and were gone.

Jim returned to his desk, hovering for a moment over Angela's unfinished coffee. Tempting though it was, his stomach had gone sufficiently sour that he was soon going to regret having drunk all of his own. How could he possibly have thought that this would help? Furthermore, had he wanted Spock there more for his own benefit than for hers? Calming though the lyre might be, music often possessed more power to feed grief than to assuage it. _Charms and wards_ , he thought. _Unforgivable_.

A knock at the door brought him out of his reverie. "It's open."

"Jim," Spock said, crossing to him in a few swift strides. "Are you all right?" 

The lyre, Jim noted, was still in Spock's arms, clasped by those long fingers with all a lover's care. He swallowed and concentrated on Spock's eyes instead. There and sane, not mad and gone. _Alive_. And altered, too, irreparably: they'd never seem blank or impassive again. For that, he was strangely grateful.

"I'm fine, Spock," he said, resuming his seat. "As well as can be expected."

Spock nodded curtly, turning to take the seat directly across from Jim. He moved what was left of Angela's coffee with slight distaste, his nostrils delicately flaring. "It goes bitter as it cools," he explained, fixing Jim with a look of knowing bewilderment. "Surely tea would have been preferable?"

Wearily, Jim smiled. Spock's attempts at lightening any difficult mood were oblique at best and unrecognizable at worst. It was that dark ripple just beneath Jim's own reflection, the quickness of human irony ever struggling to be expressed.

"Tea goes bitter, too, if you let it brew for too long."

Spock snorted. "Illogical. My sense of timing is exact, and therefore that particular peril would be of no concern whatsoever. Would you like some, Jim?"

"No," Jim said, sliding the coffee cups as far to one side as he could, "but thank you."

Spock inclined his head, only the brief tremor of lashes giving away the fact that he'd needed to blink. In his own way, Jim knew, his first officer grieved just as he did. The _Enterprise_ was no longer whole, and recovery would take some time.

"But stay," Jim heard himself say before he could bite back the words. "Play for me."

Spock glanced up at him then, lashes still lowered. The relief in his eyes washed over Jim in waves every bit as moving as Angela's grief.

"It was only ever for you," he said, with the faintest hint of a smile. The notes rose as if of their own accord, tugging Spock's deft fingers across the strings.

 _Never lose you_. Jim sat back and closed his eyes. _Never_.

Sorcery or no, he could not forbid this sadness.


	2. Rosemary, Rue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock faces up to a few unpleasant truths—about his Captain and himself.

_They say a simple life's the best,_  
 _but you would never know—_  
 _the way we complicate this world,_  
 _lion's king, the lamb lies low._

—Northern Cross, Terran traditional

 

*

 

In the wake of the departed players, both living and dead, the corridors were preternaturally quiet. Spock had chosen not to beam down to the planet's surface, if only to permit Jim to go about his business with the local and Federation authorities as swiftly and efficiently as possible. Reopened cases, least of all genocides and war crimes, were no straightforward matter. He paused behind the Captain's empty chair, admiring Sulu's diligent efficiency. The only sound on the bridge was the occasional tapping of Uhura's fingernails on the communications console.

Perplexing, how easily his human half had learned to lie to the whole.

Spock had not wished for the players to come aboard, never mind Jim's obvious and well-intended objective. What if his machinations had failed? 

From the first moment that Jim had mentioned the girl, Lenore, Karidian's daughter, he had felt that shadow-something, unnameable, _kis-ka_ , uncoil ugly and unwelcome just beneath his solar plexus. Humans called it jealousy, but in this case, there was the added dimension of _spa-ash_ —disgust. Jim would use her: knowingly at first, believing the act virtuous, and then unknowingly, ten times as treacherous as before. Even the daughter of Kodos the Executioner, a kind of monster herself, had not deserved such treatment. She had acted out of duty, _gu-vam_ , driven by genuine fear—and out of love for her father, _ashaya_ most sacred of all.

Spock's fingers tightened on the back of the chair. Head bent, his temples burned with shame. He had never even done so much to express loyalty to his own mother, much less his father. Fleetingly, he wished that the players had been permitted to finish the performance. _Hamlet_ might have taught them all much upon that score.

The console crackled to life, Jim's welcome voice vibrant even in exhaustion.

" _Enterprise_ to Captain Kirk, Lieutenant Uhura speaking. Sir?"

"It's a wrap," Jim said, the words tightly wound. "Bones says they have no further need of him, either, so you can tell whoever's down there to beam us up."

Before he knew it, Spock was leaning over Uhura, his own fingers at the dial.

"I'll see to it, Captain. Be ready in two minutes' time." Uhura gave him a questioning look as he stepped back. "Apologies," he said, nodding, and made for the turbolift.

"Commander Spock will assist you, sir. _Enterprise_ over and out."

The yeomen on duty in the transporter room seemed all too glad of the momentary relief. They chatted aimlessly in the background, and as Spock adjusted the settings, he could not help but think that there was some relief to be found in this easy camaraderie, the slow return to normal. The crew had more than once in recent weeks proved their astonishing human resiliency. Their losses were, however, regrettable.

"Energize," said Spock, to no one in particular. The yeomen briefly fell silent.

Jim and Bones materialized first, followed by yeomen Rand and Tamura. The two women seemed eager to go their own ways, but Jim came to Spock directly, smiling in spite of the fact that he radiated sheer exhaustion. Bones hung back a few paces, scanning Jim fretfully with the reader.

"Would you knock that off?" Jim asked, turning to swat the tiny cylindrical device away. "I'm fine. Tired, that's all. It's not every day you get to close the case on one of the galaxy's most notorious war criminals. Cut me some slack."

Bones shot Spock a dubious glance. "What do _you_ think?"

"Although monitoring under conditions of emotional and physical duress is always wise, you do not seem to have turned up anything amiss. The Captain needs rest. It has been difficult—" Spock paused, preparing to take a risk "—for all of us."

Bones chuckled immediately. "Even for you?"

Jim gave him a questioning look, as if he did not share the good doctor's mirth.

"Affirmative," said Spock, dismissively, touching Jim's arm. "Shall I see you to your quarters? Due to the new status of this case, the briefing can wait until later."

"Yes, Spock," Jim said, giving Bones a look that said, _You can go now_. The doctor huffed and went off in the same direction as Rand and Tamura. "But we'll take care of the briefing now," Jim added. "The sooner my hands are clean of this, the better."

_He suffers from guilt already_ , thought Spock, tailing the captain up the corridor with his hands folded firmly behind his back. Unsettling, how he longed these days for the briefest of touches, the strange-cool-gentle sensory benediction that comprised Jim's too-human flesh. _Kudaya t'masu-svi'eshikh_ , blessing of water in draught. Neither Standard, nor Vulcan seemed to suffice—and yet, Laertes was right. They had known too much of tears, and Spock could not imagine what was to come. Logic forbade it.

When the door closed behind them, the flood finally came. James Kirk was not given to weeping, but the thin, strained shine in his eyes somehow constituted an ocean. Spock longed to reach for him, but kept his hands clasped firmly where they were.

"I wish I'd known," Jim whispered, troubled and furious. "How could I have done it?" he asked, eyes wild and imploring. "Spock, how _could_ I? In her own way, Lenore was innocent. Now she's insane, locked up for life—no better off than poor Ophelia!"

_The play again_. Spock sighed, his hands unbinding themselves as if at Jim's command. _And Ophelia may be the more fortunate of the two, dead in the flood, mercifully unable to weep_. "You did what you deemed necessary," Spock said, edging closer. "It was your life or that of Karidian." _I would not have seen you perish, t'hy'la_. The word had risen in him unbidden, taking the orderly maze of his mind by surprise.

Jim nodded curtly, raking frustrated fingers through his hair. "As always, Spock, I'm touched by your confidence. Now, if it had been _your_ life on the line, or Bones's, well—the girl would've been dead, too. I'd have done it in a heartbeat. What kind of a man does that make me? I can't even comfort my own grieving crew, much less—"

"It _makes_ you a man," said Spock, finally closing the distance between them. "Nothing more. Can we be more than what we are, Captain?"

_Nuh-tab-ma_ , too late: one astonished breath, and Spock's own fingers were lost where Jim's had passed just a moment before. His hair was damp with humidity from the planet below, torturously soft beneath Spock's fingertips. Spock withdrew his hand swiftly, his amazement pitched up to the brink of simple human _fear_.

And then, as if Jim had no memory of the gesture, he grinned and clapped Spock on the shoulders. "Only you, my friend," he said, indicating as he moved to sit that Spock should take the seat across from him, "can lay claim to such a thing." So brief, the lighting of Jim's hands, so faintly discernible through two layers of fabric.

Still, Spock felt his skin sing with it, like ghostly overtones in a vaulted chamber.

"I doubt that very much, Jim," said Spock, placing his hands flat on the desktop, as if to keep them where they could cause no further harm. "Do you have the forms?"

Jim flipped a switch. "Record now, transcribe later. There's something to be said for your idea of compromise. Consider this my willingness to meet you halfway."

"Ready," said Spock, and summoned the requisite questions: sharp, precise shapes he had no wish to speak. He knew no words for these herbs, rosemary and rue. But their meanings, those he knew well. _Sfith'vokaya_ , bitterness-in-remembrance. 

_I would not have them touch you both at once, t'hy'la, not for all the worlds._


	3. The Edge of Always

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim contemplates the merits of pursuing the unavoidable.

_All I wanted was your love,_  
 _the taste of your sweet kiss._  
 _That river may flow deep and wide,_  
 _but it cannot stop my longing for this._

—Northern Cross, Terran traditional

 

*

 

 _It's a fine mess we've just evaded_ , Jim thought, contemplating his next move as he regarded Spock through the tiers of the chessboard. _And an even finer one we've gotten ourselves into_. Spock sat motionless, returning his gaze with wary ease. _I'm not buying the silence, mister, not this time: your eyes broadcast volumes_.

"Penny for your thoughts, Jim?" It was always startling when Spock used errant Standard figures of speech. One had to wonder how many he had saved up.

Jim settled for shifting a black pawn into position as bait.

"I was thinking that not every first officer would be so fortunate as to secure a private audience with his captain after successfully staging mutiny." Jim smiled, but it wasn't strictly necessary. Spock had learned long ago what human teasing looked like, even if he didn't always show it. In fact, he usually _did_ show it—but in signs that only Jim had learned to read. Bones, hard-headed as he was, at least knew a few of them.

Spock raised one eyebrow and inclined his head, the Vulcan equivalent of a shrug.

"And yet I _am_ fortunate. Not only have you seen fit not to deny me access, but you have also deemed it appropriate to ensure that I'll only be soundly beaten." 

With something resembling regret, Spock took the pawn with his white knight, in full knowledge of what else he was about to concede. The intentional humor in Spock's statement, however, was impossible to miss. There it was again, the blossoming in Jim's chest so poignant as to be painful. How had he ever lived before this?

 _He'll lose_ to _me so willingly. How, then, can I see to it I don't lose_ him _?_

Jim drew his breath in deep, claiming Spock's knight with one of his own. "I have only one question to ask you about all of this, and I hope to you'll find no offense in it."

Spock responded with a direct nod, as if he had no objections. "Anything," he said, although some further word hung on the air, unspoken, the impression of an exhalation split in halting parts. He did not make his next move.

 _Did he mean to speak my name?_ Jim sighed, folding his arms across his chest.

"Do you feel that we did the right thing?"

Spock's brow furrowed, the clearest of all his emotions writ broadly enough to burst. "I mean no offense, either, Captain, but you are innocent in this matter. Therefore, should not the question be whether or not _I_ feel that I've done the right thing?"

Jim shrugged and shifted to lean forward, drawn more strongly to Spock's worry than a Terran moth to flame. It pained him to think that Spock was determined to bear the events of the past few days alone. Yet wasn't that what they'd always done, tried to keep private grievances from each other until circumstance forced them to light?

"If we ignore the fact that I agreed with you in the end and gave my approval, then I suppose so. _Do_ you feel that you've done the right thing? Will Christopher be happy there in spite of what negative memories he must have of the first time around?"

Unexpectedly, Spock closed his eyes, withdrawing into himself with his head slightly bowed. For a moment, Jim wondered if he'd _really_ gone and done it, if Spock intended to sit there and meditate on his strategy in silence for the next forty minutes. He'd done that, once, early on in their friendship, more to try Jim's patience than out of malice. They hadn't always seen eye to eye, but somehow, it was _always_ into which Jim was now stumbling, pitched up to a precipice he could give no other name.

"Would it comfort you to know if he was?" Spock asked, his voice low and distant. "If I could find him...again, even for a moment...I could show you—"

"Now, wait a minute," Jim said, shifting the chessboard aside without a thought. "I won't have you undertaking some psychic wild goose-chase that might not even work just for the sake of answering a theoretical question. I've seen you _hurt_ —"

When Spock spoke again, his voice was lower and softer still. It reminded Jim of nothing so much as that brief, languid stroke of Spock's long fingers in his hair.

"Oh, _t'hy'la_. Yes, I am here. _I am here_."

That exhalation again, in hushed awe—or was it a word, a term, a name for what they so desperately sought? He'd heard Spock like this before, when the Horta—

"Chris," Jim murmured, catching himself against the edge of the desk, as if something in him had given way and taken with it his body's support. " _Are you there?_ "

Spock's breathing grew harsh for a few moments, as if he might give in to tears. Just as swiftly, the spell subsided, giving way to the Vulcan's normal, even breaths and another tremor as the luminous dark eyes drifted open.

"He is there, Jim." Spock spoke haltingly, as if it took some effort. "You saw him go."

Instinctively, Jim slid one hand across the desk towards Spock. "Yes, but I meant...did you find—?" His own voice betrayed him, choked to nothingness. Was eternity so rare a thing that they could not hope to grasp it, or even to have it for themselves?

Spock's fingers brushed his palm, tentative with longing. He dared not look down.

"I heard him greet his beloved. Even that, I should not have heard."

 _And do you greet me now as Chris greeted her, both joyous and afraid?_ Jim entwined his fingers with Spock's as gently as he dared. Yes, the Vulcan knew fear.

"Yes, _t'hy'la_." That breath again, that _word_ —

And it was then that the ship began to shudder, sending the chesspieces flying.

"The bridge," said Spock, with vague horror, rising so fast that Jim didn't feel their fingers part. "We are overdue to relieve the others. I have been careless."

The _Enterprise_ lurched again, sending them both forward against the desk, as if to chastise them for their foolishness. Spock caught Jim by the shoulders, holding him there for one inscrutable moment before easing him back to stand steady again.

"Then let's go," said Jim, with as much resolve as he could. "This can't be good."

"Affirmative," Spock replied, grabbing him by the arm. " _Quickly_."

 _T'hy'la_ , Jim breathed as they ran. _Beloved. Is it you? Are we there?_


	4. Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein a kaleidoscope of complications finally brings about collapse.

_When that final deal goes down,_  
 _I'll gladly pay the cost_  
 _if my soul could be a station_  
 _high upon that Northern Cross._

—Northern Cross, Terran traditional

 

*

 

The scene on the bridge was Jim's worst nightmare. The sensation radiated off of him in waves so high and fierce that Spock, clinging to the railing with all of his strength as the time displacement's fierce assault hit, irrationally wondered if it was possible to drown in the mind of another. _Hold on, t'hy'la_. Jim met his eyes for only a split second before they realized what had happened. Bones was down, and the cordrazine—

A hypo in the stomach, every last milliliter. Spock reeled with the horror of it.

Over the next few minutes, there was only the pandemonium of the chase, the sickening knowledge that neither he, nor Jim could have held him. They had no choice but to beam down in pursuit, never mind what perils they might discover. To lose Bones, Spock suspected, would be to lose some part of the _Enterprise_ 's soul that was even less recoverable than those fragments they had already lost.

Spock fought the urge to reach for Jim as they crowded into the turbolift with Uhura, Scott, and the security officers, but he realized that it would have served little purpose other than to distract Jim. He could not risk it again, could not stand to hear—

_T'hy'la. Is it you? Are we there?_

Upon landing, Jim gravitated to Spock's side, as if the repetition of his own stricken thoughts had acted as a lodestar. And then the chase again—too late, yes _always_ too late. They stood panting, staring as Bones vanished into the shimmering static.

"We have only one chance," Jim was murmuring into his log. "We have asked the Guardian to show us Earth's history again: Spock and I will go back into time ourselves, and attempt to set right whatever it was that McCoy changed." 

Numbly, Spock concentrated on the playback of images in his tricorder. _There_.

And it was only moments later as they leapt through, breaths bated, that Spock felt an echo of what had engulfed his mind when he had located Christopher Pike.

_Oh, beloved. Yes, I am here. **I am here**._

* * *

It was happening all over again. Lenore or Leila, Jim or himself: it did not matter.

And in spite of all his careful self-restraint, _t'san s'at_? It _hurt_.

The worst part of it, Spock supposed, was not even that Edith Keeler was just another woman that had happened to cross their path. She was not _just_ another woman; the sheer, intelligent charisma in those piercing eyes, _shal'nekwitaya_ , cut Spock to the core. Cruelest of all, he could feel the same impact in psychic stereo as Jim spoke with her, drawing closer. How dare he have the audacity to ask her how _she_ saw _them_?

"You?" Edith asked, her gaze fixed on Spock, staring down the shaft she had so deftly drilled a moment before. "At his side. As if you've always been there and always will."

He only half-listened to what she proceeded to say about Jim, for, although it was doubtless true, her voice had taken on a fanciful lightness that held some measure of flattery. The inconsistency itched Spock's ears worse than the wool skullcap he had stolen along with the rest of the clothing he now wore. How could this woman have been so candid with him, yet so careless with Jim? The answer was stupidly obvious. 

_Skamaya_. Attraction more forceful than a star spun out of orbit.

And Jim would use her, Spock realized with a shiver, just as he had used Lenore.

* * *

Conveniently, the flop had two small beds, a pair of chairs, and a sizeable table. For the first few nights, Spock did not sleep, nor did he attempt to meditate. The alien sounds of the street outside fascinated him, luring his inner historian like mythical siren song. He had never before stopped to contemplate what the middle of the Terran twentieth century would have sounded like. The sound of engines smacked more of clockwork in comparison to what he'd known of those in later decades, and the music—by turns wild and despairing, full of raw resentment and astonishing joy. This period had produced some of Earth's finest instrumentalists.

"How long do you suppose it'll take you to build this thing?" Jim asked, his voice emerging as if from the shadows. It was thick with the traces of sleep.

Spock frowned at the ceiling, afraid of what might happen if he turned his head to look at Jim. He could tell by the slight stirring of the air that Jim was looking at _him_.

"Impossible to say," Spock replied. "Assuming that two weeks' wages will indeed be sufficient to purchase what supplies you say it will at Earth's current market prices, then it could very well take me another week beyond that to ensure that the components work properly. And even then, I cannot promise you results."

"A lot of time, in other words," Jim said, fully awake now and discernibly pensive.

Spock closed his eyes and savored what was left of those few sounds in the stillness.

"No, Jim," he said, but it was not what he had meant. "Not so much as you think."

"Spock—" Jim hesitated, as if he, too, had reached for this fragile, threatened thing that lay between them and then thought better of it. "I was thinking..."

"Clarify?" Spock swallowed around the thickness that was forming in his throat.

"About what to do if we get stuck here," continued Jim, and the uncertainty of it was almost more than Spock could bear. "With your skills, we could go into manufacturing lab equipment. Help speed technology along to its logical conclusion."

"That," Spock said, "would _not_ be logical. Need I remind you why we are here?"

Jim was silent for a long time, but Spock had the impression that he was smiling.

"That's why you're at my side."

Spock turned to face the window, losing himself in the street-sounds outside.

_Too much, t'hy'la. Too much of tears, too much of this, too much of you._

* * *

The moment passed in a kaleidoscope of confusion, not unlike the one on the bridge that could very well have cost them Bones's life. And still could, Spock reasoned, if either of the struggling men managed to break free of the other and hurdle headlong into the street. Even clockwork engines could kill, as this one was destined to do.

Spock was free, unfettered, able to run if he so chose. The sparing of Edith's life would surely mean Jim's love and gratitude throughout the rest of time unending.

And yet he understood that he was no less human than Jim had been when he had said that Lenore's life would not have been worth the sacrifice of Bones's or his own.

Another split second and it was finished, flesh and clockwork burnt to dust.

Jim was silent as they collected their meager belongings from the flop. They dismantled the computer while Bones stood on watching, dumbstruck. He probably wanted to know how Spock had managed to construct the device with such limited tools at his disposal. Spock was not certain he could have explained the fact that he had been able to bypass the use of platinum. Even to him, it seemed miraculous.

"Leave no trace," Bones murmured, helping them haul the last of it down to the alleyway. "It's probably for the best, isn't it? You wouldn't want the next lodger to wander in and lose his mind on account of all those doodads. Hell, somebody might even stumble across the scraps and decide to report UFO wreckage!"

"Bones, be quiet," said Jim, dusting off his hands. "I don't want to think about it."

Spock used a stray board to shove down the remaining detritus as far as he could into the metal trash bin. The lid just barely stayed in place when he closed it.

"That ought to suffice, Jim," he said. "And if anyone does bother to go scavenging, they will probably be more intent upon making a profit from what they find than wondering at its origins. These are troubled times for your planet."

"Well, I'm sick of my planet. At least for now. Gentlemen, let's get out of here."

This time, the Guardian's static carried no echoes laced with the promise of eternity.

Spock was infinitely grateful. It had whispered of the _wrong_ eternity, one that was not his. And if acknowledging selfishness was the price he must pay, then— _ni'nam-tor_.

So be it.

* * *

Mutiny, it seemed, was not the only extreme act that warranted a private audience. Only this time, Spock had not requested one, and Jim had not warned him that he had intended to show up at Spock's door without so much as the pretense of a chessboard.

"Captain," Spock blurted in surprise, rising as Jim entered. "If I had known—"

"Need I remind you that we're off duty?"

"No," Spock said, waving the door closed behind him. "Jim. If I had—"

Jim had not spoken further, yet the desolation in eyes was enough to silence Spock. He did not seem to know what to do with his hands. He wrung them tautly, as if his body felt more keenly than his mind the absence of what he had forgotten.

"Before I lose my mind," he began, and then stopped, searching Spock's face for something that not even Spock was certain he would find. "I wanted to ask you..."

Foolishness, unforgivable _duh'es_ to stand there when Jim was adrift without so much as hope for an anchor. He took hold of Jim's hands on impulse, clasping them firmly between his own, imploring them to be still. _T'hy'la, I cannot choose but listen._

Jim inhaled, but whether it was the result of Spock's touch or merely to steady himself, Spock could not say. The pulse in Jim's wrist had already begun to slow.

"Did I do the right thing?" he asked, as if to beg the most impossible forgiveness.

Spock regarded him candidly, a myriad confused memories and moments playing against the backdrop of the present. Jim asking him if he felt that _they_ had done the right thing; Jim not even minding Spock's fingers in his hair; Jim reaching across the desk in search of his hand, game of chess forgotten. Leila begging him to love her; Lenore begging Jim to spare her father's life; Edith so calm and quiet and _knowing_ —

"Yes, _t'hy'la_ ," Spock whispered. "We are there."

Jim blinked at him, stunned, as if he had not quite heard the words properly. He did not need to hear them, though, for they were his own—always and already there in his mind, the one burning question with which they had never bothered to square.

* * *

Spock could not fault him for answering with a kiss. It was all any human could do.

He had not expected perfection. How could anyone expect it in the light of former absence? He longed to blame the awkwardness on conditions and environment: on the constant half-light of his cabin, on the perpetual heat that he knew Jim could not bear. Exposed in the dimness, Jim's skin was flushed with something worse than fever, worse even than _wanting_. His hands on Jim's thighs drew a moan from the other man's throat, startling in its intensity. They both trembled with it.

"Spock," Jim managed, struggling to get at the fastenings on Spock's trousers. "Spock, slow _down_ a little, I can hardly—oh, Jesus. _Spock_."

 _I would not have you speak now, t'hy'la, not when words have lately failed us_.

Spock had not anticipated difficulty in breaking away from that kiss, those kisses, until he couldn't count even in the span of scarcely ten minutes precisely how many they had shared. Jim lay propped up on his elbows, panting, watching with barely disguised hunger as Spock shed the remainder of his clothing. Still more awkwardness—and _teshan_ , too, sheerest awe at the rise of some emotion too poignant to bear. Jim reached for him, suitably speechless, and Spock sank to meet him in relief.

Jim was hard beneath him, so aroused that Spock could think of nothing but this, the questioning brush of his fingers against the tip before closing it in his decisive grasp.

Later, Spock was certain that he might wish that he had known enough presence of mind to bend and take Jim in his mouth. But for now, it was enough to bring him shuddering to the edge of oblivion with strokes and caresses and kisses to swallow Spock's own hoarse shout when he came, astonished, against Jim's already-slick stomach. Spock slumped, losing his fingers in Jim's damp hair.

"Took us long enough," Jim sighed, cradling Spock possessively close.

Spock let out an unsteady breath, pressing his lips to Jim's temple.

"But not as long as it might have taken, had circumstances been different."

"I'm grateful to her," Jim said softly. "I'm grateful to all of them."

"Affirmative," Spock replied, and turned the word into a kiss.

_It was only ever for you, only ever the right thing. T'hy'la, never forget it._


	5. Until Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Although loss never gets easier, others will help you to bear it.

_Old memories have faded—  
nearly all of them are lost,  
except for your face shining  
beneath that Northern Cross._

—Northern Cross, Terran traditional

 

*

 

Turning away from Sam's body was, perhaps, the hardest moment of Jim's life. Up until that point, anyway—he was certain that events in the near future would conspire to make circumstances all the more painful. As Bones and his assistants carefully beamed his inert nephew and sister-in-law up to the ship, Spock caught Jim's eye.

"The boy will live, Jim," he said, his voice laced with a new strand of gentleness. "From what you have told me, Peter is a bright, strong, and determined young man."

Jim nodded, staring hard at the floor. "And Aurelan?"

Spock came to him then, both hands careful at his shoulders. "Uncertain."

"We should bury him," said Jim, grimly, meeting Spock's eyes. "As quickly as we can."

"Affirmative. Do you know the property well?"

"I'm familiar enough," Jim said, thinking of how infrequently he had visited Deneva. He wished that he'd accepted more of Aurelan's near-constant invitations.

Instead of letting go of him, Spock drew Jim closer. "Jim, if we wait any longer—"

Something collapsed in him, helplessly, and he slumped against Spock's shoulder with a sob. Under any other conditions, the Vulcan would have stiffened, extending the embrace as politeness only. There was warmth in him now that Jim had never dared hope for: he seemed to be holding on with all of the love and strength he possessed.

"We should leave him for now," Jim said, collecting himself. "Beam up, check on the survivors. Bones has probably learned a lot already."

"True," Spock said, releasing him hesitantly. "Shall I contact the ship?"

"Yes," Jim replied, reaching to briefly squeeze Spock's hand.

_Sam, don't worry. We'll come back for you._

* * *

There was a moment, on the way into sickbay, when about four of them tried to crowd through at once to see what Bones was raving about. In the crush, Jim and Spock were pressed up against the doorframe, front to front. Spock briefly sought Jim's hands, his fingertips grazing the backs. It happened so swiftly that no one could have noticed, but Jim was certain that he would remember it until his dying day.

Neurological control: some kind of horrible pain inflicted upon the victims any time they attempted to disobey orders. Bones almost winced as he explained it.

Aurelan fought the onslaught bravely, grating out both what she knew and what she could guess. Jim was both awed and stricken by her fortitude; he should have known that Sam would choose a partner capable of holding her own under even the toughest of odds. No one had expected that life on Deneva would prove difficult, but Jim knew better than anyone that colonization took rare courage and an acceptance of risk. It required both the foreknowledge of death and the will to go on living.

As Aurelan's vitals faded to nothing, Jim felt the stir of Spock's mind stealing into his own, like breath made thought, which had begun to fill the stretches of silence through their stolen, precious nights of joining. _Jim, I am sorry. S'ti th'laktra._ Vulcan seemed such a fragile, poetic language for a people so set upon logic.

Spock's brief amusement at the thought cut through Jim's grief like sunlight.

"I'm going back down," Jim said, setting his jaw with determination.

Spock's touch burned at his wrist, an almost unbearable comfort. 

_I go with thee as I grieve with thee, t'hy'la_.

* * *

It was the same nightmare, revisited: the sickbay again, where Peter slept, tossing in sedated pain, and Spock lay stoic beneath his restraints. Jim could not quite find a comparison point for what had just transpired. He'd nearly lost Spock before, but never in the knowledge that part of himself would surely die with him.

"Captain, I understand your concern," Bones was saying, "your affection for Spock, the fact that your nephew is the last survivor of your brother's family—"

His _affection_ for Spock. The words might as well have been a blade slipped between his ribs, catching him off guard. Bones had never used a term anywhere _near_ comparable to describe his relationship to Spock, much less often spoken favorably of him. What had he noticed between them, Jim wondered, amidst the chaos?

"No, Bones," Jim said, forcing himself back to the task at hand. "There are more than two lives at stake here. I can't let it spread beyond this colony, even if it means destroying a million people down there." He longed to touch Spock, but resisted.

"Jim, listen to me," Bones began, plainly about to say something difficult. "If it means destroying all those people, then it would also mean—"

Jim took hold of his arm, almost savagely, and shook him. "You needn't tell me _that_."

Spock stirred again, as if the sedative wouldn't last for long. Already, Jim could feel the thought-tendrils curling outward, the palpable warmth of his psychic presence.

"I just wanted to make sure you could square with it," Bones said, taking hold of Jim's elbow and easing him off. "I wouldn't want to see you make any rash decisions." His eyes flicked down to Spock's face, and then back to Jim's. "Do you read me?"

"I read you, Bones," Jim said, already turning to go. "Take _care_ of him, goddamn it!"

* * *

Jim knew before he could even bring himself to look into Spock's eyes and find emptiness there. The Vulcan stood still, both comprehending and not. It was as if blindness as a result of having been hit with near-fatal levels of radiation didn't logically compute. Jim's heart clenched to know that Spock felt consternation where any lesser man would have shattered and wept for the loss of his sight.

_T'hy'la, I should have known better. Do not grieve for me as for the dead._

_I'm not grieving_ , thought Jim, struggling to conceal his panic. _I'm—_

 _Bear it, then, for it means your nephew will live_.

But blinded and no longer whole, too young to suffer such a fate. Spock, Jim knew, would adapt to this as he had adapted to any other number of minor inconveniences. Fleetingly, Jim wondered if leaving an entire planet so afflicted would be preferable to leaving them for dead. Would Sam have stood for it, he wondered?

Spock inclined his head in Jim's direction, acknowledging his every doubt.

 _He would have wished for his son to live_.

Jim nodded—to himself, to Spock, to no one. And then Bones opened his mouth.

The halting explanation of what he'd done wrong, his failure to isolate the ultraviolet spectrum and block out the rest of it, did little to alter Spock's calm acceptance. Strange, to think that a Vulcan could see himself so willingly, so _logically_ a sacrifice to some greater cause—a cause in which _humans_ were the primary benefactors.

_I am human, too, Jim. Perhaps just as human as you._

Jim closed his eyes on the briefest sting of tears, and then proceeded to tell them exactly what was to be done. If the satellites were to fail, well—then it would be on his head and no one else's, as it should be. Bones had done no less than what he was able, and Jim could not begrudge him what could not be reversed.

_T'hy'la...?_

He hurried out of the room, unable to face Spock's concerned query. Even as he delivered orders to the rest of the ship, his mind flooded with what now was and would forever be: knowledge that _his_ mind alone would be Spock's light in the darkness.

 _Unworthy_ , Jim thought, giving Sulu's shoulder a squeeze. _How have I come to this?_

* * *

Although Spock's sight had returned, they made love that night like blind men.

Jim couldn't remember a time that it had ever been like this, not with any of his previous lovers. Spock's single-minded intensity was both human and not: each touch was suffused with so much devotion that Jim couldn't help but be shaken down to his very foundations. And there were Spock's thoughts, too, unbidden and ever-present, but never unwelcome. Jim returned the hunger of Spock's kiss without mercy.

It was unfamiliar, too, to feel such trust as to let himself be dominated. Spock's tightly wound control unspooled itself and curled about him like tender, living gossamer. In the darkness of Jim's cabin—a darkness they'd _chosen_ —he left no inch of skin untouched by his curious, questing lips. This was not the first time that Spock had taken Jim in his mouth with fervent directness, nor would it be the last.

 _You think upon life, Jim. As you should at such a time as this_.

Maddening, the man's ability to form such eloquent thoughts when Jim could hardly form coherent words! With a swallowed groan, Jim tightened his grasp on Spock's shoulders. He was trembling with the force of his need now, nearly—

Spock's fingers smoothed down his hips, settled at the backs of his thighs.

_Come, t'hy'la. I go with thee._

And it was over for them both, parallel shockwaves in near-perfect stereo. Once he'd returned to himself, Jim discovered that Spock had already dragged himself up the length of Jim's body and settled to cover him. Mindful of what Spock would doubtless consider a chill, Jim fumbled with the covers until he'd got them up and over Spock's shoulders. The Vulcan murmured against his neck, a soft sound of pleasure.

"You are much warmer than you give yourself credit for."

Jim smiled, too exhausted to laugh. "And you, mister, are an _inferno_."

Spock propped himself up on his elbows, scrutinizing Jim's features.

"It would not have been so different," he mused, and fell silent again.

"What wouldn't?"

"This," said Spock, simply. "You."

 _Never lose you_ , Jim thought, drawing him in. _Until death, and not even then_.


	6. Other Lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Other choices and other selves don't always occur in parallel universes.

_This old highway is just a lonely patch of blue and gray,  
and late at night, my memory obfuscates my line of sight.  
In my mind, I really had no choice, the stars were cold—  
in my eyes, they hung there in dark skies, just still and old._

—This Is Me, Terran 21st-century

 

*

 

If, in the Vulcan mindset, there were such a thing as disorientation, Spock imagined that it would feel much like this: the very fabric of the universe being yanked out from under them, a Victorian Earth-magician's parlor diversion with dire, time-bending consequences. He could not be sure as to whether the glasses of water had remained unspilled, or if he had seized upon the wrong trick as a metaphor. It was entirely possible that the hydrogen-and-oxygen compound had been transmuted into wine.

In the wake of _koon-ut-kal-if-fee_ , Spock had experienced a swifter recession of the blood fever than he had ever believed possible. The revelation that his mixed heritage, the offending substance in his veins itself, had not been sufficient to fully spare him the vagaries of _pon farr_ had, nonetheless, been enlightening. Spock had not chosen unwisely, and he had, seemingly _against_ all logic, set up for himself an inadvertent safeguard. He had heard Jim mutter against charms and wards, but had his lover realized the ironic truth in those words shot through with ghostly superstition?

Jim's kiss had been less than gentle that night, as if some part of him had still not forgotten Spock's insensate, star-blinded fury. Even safely out of orbit and far away from Vulcan, the wind with its dust-flecked sense of spite had hunted them down and haunted their flesh with the memory of cudgel blows and whiplash. Spock had awakened the next morning to a rare occurrence, his Captain awake before him, those quick eyes taking in every mark his teeth and hands had left.

"Spock," he had murmured, as if to apologize, "I shouldn't have—"

"I killed you," Spock had responded, simply. "It is no less than I deserve."

And there had been more, then, for some small endless space, as if neither of them cared for anything but to devour the other whole. Guiltily, Spock had realized that perhaps _plak tow_ was not truly gone, but dormant, satisfied to wait out of carefully controlled penance for these stolen nights and moments between bridge shifts and risk-filled reconnaissance missions. It had taken at least a week to fade, if not longer, and the resulting constellations of shared scars had not solely been earned in the challenge. _Masu vi'plak_ , water into blood. They had quenched each other.

Ever since, Jim had taken to treating Spock with rare circumspection in their moments of privacy. If, in the Vulcan mindset, there were such a thing as annoyance, then Spock was certain that Doctor McCoy would doubtless have a field day with what was going on between the proverbial lines. _I will not break, t'hy'la_. Jim had been duly chastised, although his habitual tenderness, _ashaya-tun_ , had returned.

Having been confronted with his Captain's brutal mirror-image, alike and yet not, some forty-eight hours later, had been nothing less than equivalent to the petty human gesture of a slap in the face. Spock's mind still reeled with it, and even in moments such as this, closing on the edge of sleep, disquiet emerged victorious.

"You're awake." Even thick with exhaustion, Jim's voice was as distinct as the stir of his breath against Spock's nape. "Come on, Spock. Out with it."

Irritation cut through in the wake of his unsettled thoughts. "I am very frequently awake at this hour, regardless of how fatigued my human colleagues may be."

Jim snorted. "Colleagues. Is that what they're calling it these days?"

Spock frowned at the wall, which he could only dimly discern. "I did not intend humor in this matter, but if it makes our discussion easier for you to bear—"

"Discussion?" Jim echoed, by now fully awake. "We're having a _discussion_?"

"It would appear so, Captain." Spock closed his eyes and laced his fingers absently with Jim's. He would let Jim think on that for a few long seconds, if only to sober him.

"Didn't we establish some kind of...hmmm, I don't know, no-business-in-the-bedroom rule? Or did I drink so much earlier in Bones's quarters that I'm not thinking straight?"

"If you had included me in the discussion to which you are now referring, we might have circumvented the need for this one. Tell me, do you intend to withhold further details of my other self from me indefinitely?"

"As a matter of fact, no, I—" Jim halted mid-sentence, his breath coming next in a flabbergasted burst. "Spock, what are you talking about?"

It was too late to deny the slow, strange unfurling of hurt, some peculiar accident of biology so far gone that Spock knew there would be little to no chance of reversing it. Whatever had happened as a result of his altered fate, Spock would have to learn to live with it. Had it been pity in his mother's glance, a parent's privilege of forewarning?

"I am merely referring to your ill-advised choice of company immediately following what will undoubtedly prove to be a humbling experience for all parties involved."

Unexpectedly, Jim kissed his shoulder. "See, you talk like that when you'd rather be shouting at me. Why don't you just let it out?"

Spock tucked his chin into the pillow, his mind racing. Seven years old and possessed of instinctive apprehension: yes, he had felt it, had known something even then of what time felt like when out of joint. _Kuv nam-tor ri'lasha, i'nam-tor._

"I didn't know they'd translated the play into Vulcan," said Jim, softly.

"If it be not to come, it will be now," Spock repeated aloud. "Good poetry, and wise."

He could almost see the quirk of Jim's lips. "You weren't so different. Not like me."

Spock rolled to face him, searching the outline of his features. "What makes you believe _you_ were so different?" he asked, feeling instantly, inexplicably apologetic. So mercurial, this new self. How could he have forgotten from one moment to the next?

That well-worn quirk of the lips, this time visible. "Call it a hunch."

Spock turned away from him again, offering his consideration to the daftly patterned sheets. The impression of his own lips flashed strongly against the blackness: Jim's familiarity with Spock's features was as certain as Spock's sense of _his_ , except...

"Illogical," he muttered, drawing Jim's knuckles up to his chin to find only smoothness there. _How_ had such a tasteless human grooming choice caught on?

"Plus," Jim added, his grin plain as day against Spock's ear-tip, "it made you look ten years older. For a Vulcan, that's _pretty_ significant."

 _Different after all_ , Spock decided, and closed his eyes. If Jim was so skilled at detecting wakefulness, then he was going to have to work for it.


	7. Reverse Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of Gamma Canaris, Jim faces up to some difficult questions.

_The noble mind, it traps four pieces of the heart inside:  
we came in twos, and two by twos it seemed of little use.  
We felt the rain, our faces cold and pale, the colors drained;  
the oceans grew until we floated on a deeper hue._

—This Is Me, Terran 21st-century

 

*

 

 _It keeps happening_ , Jim thought, pacing. _Worlds without end, eternity in microcosm_.

First Pike, and now Hedford. To say that heaven or something like it wasn't desirable would be foolish, certainly, but happy endings of the kind he'd now been party to twice over were...rare, to say the least. Something you only read about in fairytales or got promised after death in antiquated religions that were almost one-hundred percent bunk. What good was turning off the head to appease the heart?

 _Completely illogical under most circumstances, that's what_.

If Jim hadn't known better, he would've assumed that the thought-intrusion was Spock's. But Spock wasn't off shift for another twenty minutes, and it was some distance from Jim's quarters to the bridge. Acting in capacity as First Officer, Spock's thoughts were generally far from such pursuits as probing Jim's thoughts for a lark. There was little need for it on the bridge anyway; they could read each other's body language so well by now that psychic intervention would have been superfluous.

Still, he had to admit that the examples at hand were not, in fact, most circumstances—and that logic did seem to apply. If that weren't the case, Spock wouldn't have committed mutiny for the sake of what was, essentially, a mission of mercy. And if it hadn't been one of Jim's first clues as to what Spock was really worth to him, well, it _should_ have been. Anyone willing to give an old friend what was essentially his dying wish against all other odds was beyond price. And how could he, in good conscience, attempt to appraise the man who'd lately become his beloved?

_And what about Cochrane's parochial attitude? Would you have said that even six months ago, or would such a criticism not have occurred to you until now?_

Shame was a strange emotion, one that Jim didn't make a habit of harboring. It seared through him now, raking his flesh with doubt. Had he not had Spock by that point of no returning, he might have just sat in silence while his First Officer and CMO commented in wonder. What _would_ it have mattered to him that the Companion and Cochrane were lovers? And what did it matter that the Companion had revealed itself to have an inclination toward identification with the feminine gender?

_What if Hedford had been a man? What then, when the only available body, dying by the second, would have been rendered twice as abhorrent to its object of desire?_

Difficult to tell. Cochrane would have initially rejected the creature in such a guise, no doubt, just as he had rejected it in its alien form when Jim had revealed to him the obvious nature of its intent. Of his _own_ intent. Could such deep-seated fear have turned to love, just as he'd found it in himself to accept at the eleventh hour when faced with a body possessed by two souls? The implications were endlessly complex, and they hit closer to home than Jim ever would have guessed. In that other universe, would Marlena's departure open a space for other-Spock in his other self's life? Did it mean that there were, indeed, worlds without end wherein they might find no happy ending? Realms in which they were young again, or old, or dying—even dead?

_Hell, our happy ending here's not even written yet._

"I wish you would not brood, Captain. It concerns me."

Jim spun around. He hadn't even heard the door slide open.

"Is that what it looks like I'm doing, Spock?"

"Affirmative," Spock replied, already standing less than a breath away. "The manner in which your brow is furrowed, just here—" he raised one elegant finger to point, skimming one of Jim's fainter scars "—never fails to get the better of you."

"Which means _you_ don't get the best of me," Jim concluded, frowning. "I see."

"Would it help if I were to listen, Jim, or is this matter too private to share?"

"No, Spock," Jim admitted, reaching up to take Spock's hand, which hadn't moved. "It's not. I was thinking about what happened on Gamma Canaris."

Spock nodded, possessed of that maddening, imperturbable calm. "Indeed. Ever since the moment of our departure, it has not been far from my thoughts."

"Is that so?" Jim asked. "What about it has been bothering _you_?"

Spock frowned slightly, inclining his head, as if contemplating the relative merits of kissing over starting a heady conversation. "Although 'bothering' is not precisely an apt term under these circumstances, I gather your meaning. I have been unable to decide whether I am comfortable with the situation we left behind."

"It's not too dissimilar from Pike's present situation. That's one thing I was thinking. You seemed perfectly fine with leaving him on Talos IV."

"That is correct, Jim. But I had no doubts whatsoever that he loved, and would _be_ loved in turn. I have my doubts about Cochrane. He is a restless spirit. He may grow to resent the Companion _and_ Commissioner Hedford. Or to prefer one over the other."

Jim chewed his lip. "I hope not. I mean, they seemed pretty integrated, didn't they?"

Spock's fingers unfurled lazily, assuming the meld position without warning. Instead of a harsh, jarring moment of psychological lockdown, there was only the secure, reassuring warmth he'd come to expect of _any_ physical contact with Spock. Instinctively, Jim closed his eyes and leaned into the ebb of it, relinquishing every last thought. When Spock reached memories of the moments over which he'd tripped into doubt, the shame returned. Beneath Spock's fingertips, his cheeks burned with it.

"Jim," Spock whispered, gone in an instant. "Do not blame yourself for not stepping forward, for not saying _more_. In speaking that single word, you said all that there was _to_ be said. His reaction would have been no different to an explicit revelation of—"

"That one word," said Jim, hesitantly, "is still pretty problematic _here_ , isn't it?"

"Love?" Spock asked, raising an eyebrow. "Do you mean to imply I have difficulty acknowledging it, let alone speaking it? I should think that I have made myself _abundantly_ clear on a number of occasions, not least of all a fortnight ago when—"

"I get the message," Jim said, his chest flooding with something like relief. And he should have kissed Spock a hell of a lot sooner, that was for _damned_ sure.


	8. Split Vision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood is often thicker than regret.

_You will become a stranger, you will seize all the land.  
You will breach the other, count the hours, spill the sand.  
This is me:  
All that I am.  
You will see..._

—This Is Me, Terran 21st-century

 

*

 

Spock could count the number of times that he had been slapped on one hand: first by his lover, _before_ they had become lovers, and second, mere days ago, by his mother.

It had been more than an Earth-year since the inexplicable madness that nearly the entire crew had contracted from the Psi 2000 landing party. That Jim had only been able to still Spock through the use of physical force had spoken volumes of his condition; those thoughts of shame with regard to feeling love for his mother and affection toward Jim had, even if briefly, undone him. 

In striking back, he had undone Jim in kind. He had wondered many times if that lowering of inhibitions had begun the slow, inexorable burn between them. Or had it always been there, and Spock had only afterward begun to notice? Already, he knew that his human blood had more than caught up with him. He could no sooner blame Jim for what he had done than he could blame his mother for having given him life.

Nor could Spock blame her for having hit him, not least because she had never found reason to do so when he was a child. Physical discipline, although exceedingly rare, was not unheard-of on Vulcan (but, logically, quite rare in comparison to Earth). It was the love he had borne her and still bore her, perhaps, that had prevented him from wishing to cause her undue grief. Before, Spock would have insisted upon reason: it is only logical to do all in one's power to preserve harmony and balance in the family.

By those standards, he had certainly been in the wrong, thinking that his duty to the _Enterprise_ outweighed his duty to his mother in the case of his father's life. Her pain had injured him far more deeply than the flat of her hand.

And somehow, none of it— _none_ of it—had hurt as much as it had to know that Jim had lain bleeding from a knife-wound that duty—duty to his _father_ —had prevented him from tending. Even with his parents well off the ship (in spite of Doctor McCoy's strident protests), safely on Babel's surface with the rest of the delegates, Spock felt, illogically, twelve years old again, sneaking books from his father's library.

The squeeze of Jim's fingers summoned Spock back to the present.

"As First Officer, don't you have better things to do than sit here at my bedside while we're in orbit? Like make sure there aren't any stow-away Andorians on board?"

"That would be illogical, Captain," Spock said, mildly, sparing half a glance for McCoy, who was, in turn, sparing half a glower for _them_ as he cleaned his surgical tools. "I can assure you that the Andorian delegation has long since departed, and I do not think they will be gracing us with their presence for the return journey." Spock ran his thumb down the length of Jim's, letting it drift up to the heart of Jim's palm. The other man shivered, a satisfying sensation. Audibly, the Doctor cleared his throat.

Jim smiled, leaning to one side. "Something bothering you, Bones?"

"It would seem I'm allergic to your extended presence," muttered McCoy, tossing a few implements noisily into the sink. " _Both_ of you. Hell, Spock's been on his feet for three days, but I can't seem to get him out of here."

Spock inclined his head without turning to look at the Doctor. "As soon as you see fit to release the Captain, I guarantee that you will, indeed, see less of me."

McCoy dried his hands and tossed the standard-issue towel into the sink. "I'm going to leave you two lovebirds alone," he said with an air of finality, and was gone.

"Getting better at having the last word, isn't he?" Jim asked, grinning.

"His skill is much improved," Spock agreed, instinctively leaning closer.

"I'd say, especially given that job he did on you and your father. Not to sound condescending, Spock, but I think you ought to thank him when you get the chance."

"No need, Jim. I already have." Spock wasn't sure if Jim's look of surprise was more satisfying than the Doctor's had been when he had done it. He decided it was.

"Hey, what are you smiling about?"

"I am not certain what you mean," Spock said, and leaned in for a brief kiss.

"Well, what _I'm_ smiling about," Jim said as they drew apart, "is a plot I've been hatching all day. Are you interested?"

Spock raised an eyebrow, nodded. "Most interested, Captain."

Jim playfully smacked the back of his hand. "It involves a jail-break. Are you up to it?"

"What manner of escape did you have in mind?"

"The manner of escape that involves Bones having been too distracted to voice-lock the door," Jim said, pushing himself gingerly into a full sitting position. "Nice work."

Spock frowned guiltily. "Jim, I can assure you I did not intend—"

"Shut up, Spock," said Jim, throwing off the coverlet in order to inspect himself for any stray needles or tubes, "and help get me out of here."

"Acknowledged," Spock said, receiving the arm that Jim had already begun to fling over his shoulder. He vaguely dreaded having to explain the situation to anyone they happened to meet in passing, Doctor McCoy most of all.

In the end, they ran into Nurse Chapel on Deck Five, but she was easily enough won over by Jim's most convincing smile backed up by Spock's authoritative fabrication of Doctor McCoy's approval. Spock would have liked to take Jim to his own quarters, but Spock's were closest. It was essential to get him out of sight.

Their next kiss was slower, yet somehow infinitely more tentative than the one they'd shared in sickbay. Jim was perfectly capable of standing on his own, if a bit unsteadily, but he held onto Spock's shoulders with reassuring strength. Beneath his palms, Spock could feel Jim's hipbones jutting out slightly more than usual. Odd, that lying still and doing nothing was the only thing proven to cause this energetic man to lose weight. Spock bent to kiss his neck, marveling at it. He would see to it Jim ate dinner.

"It's so peaceful in here," Jim said, allowing Spock to guide him over to the bed. "If slightly creepy. How do you sleep through that constant red glow over there?"

"One gets used to it," Spock said, testing Jim's ribcage and lower back with some slight pressure. "Are you in pain?"

"Not much," Jim said, shrugging. "Those painkillers Bones keeps injecting me with are pretty strong. He says the bleeding's stopped when I move around, anyway."

"Will it bother you?" Spock asked, already tentatively lifting Jim's shirt.

"What, the pain?" Jim replied, distracted. "No, I doubt I'll even notice—"

"No, the light," Spock clarified, his breath hitching at Jim's grunt of pain as he gingerly coaxed the shirt off Jim's arms and up over his head. "I will dim it if you wish."

"No," Jim said, watching Spock discard his own shirt with an air of bemusement. "As you said, one gets used to it. In fact, I doubt I'll be paying much attention."

Spock kissed him again, suddenly weary of speech. _Ralash-fam, t'hy'la—be silent_.

Jim groaned against his mouth. "Never thought I'd find Vulcan such a...turn-on."

 _There is no end to what you would never have thought._ Spock removed his boots with quiet efficiency, then turned to the task of ridding Jim of the rest of his clothes. The faintly shimmering white bandage bore no stains: a reassuring sight in the low light of his cabin. There was so much hunger in Jim's gaze that Spock nearly faltered through his own undressing. _I would never have thought that a human could bring me to this_.

"We've brought you to it, all right," said Jim, tugging him close with both hands.

 _I would rather not think of my mother now_. Jim laughed into the kiss this time, more felt than heard. Spock welcomed it has he had been able to welcome so little in the past week. Even the simple comfort of an embrace had been forbidden.

 _Then we won't_. The thought passed as a ripple from Jim's mind to his: still new and startling, his lover's swiftly developing telepathic aptitude. _We'll think of us._

Startling, too, how easily this came to them in spite of their collective weakened state. Jim seemed to have little difficulty bearing Spock's partial weight, but before long he had managed to turn the tables in a most satisfying fashion. Their kisses were deep now, ravenous, and every last inch of Jim's flesh seared against Spock like flame.

The brush of Jim's thumb up the underside of his erection was startling at first, but hardly unwelcome. Spock swallowed his moan and concentrated on the way Jim's lower lip felt lightly trapped between his teeth for a split-second before Jim's hand closed around him in a sure, steady grip. Silence was impossible, psychic or otherwise.

_You me this now **us** —_

"Jim," breathed Spock, just once, and came.

In response, Jim kissed him again, harder still, and dragged Spock's uncooperative hand down to wrap around his own hardness. He responded to the curl of Spock's fingers with a soft hiss of pleasure. Spock lowered his head to nip at Jim's collarbone, once more enjoying the feel of Jim's skin and the fervor of his response.

No words when he came, either, thrusting helplessly into Spock's grasp. Spock caught him before the support of his arms gave out, lessening the impact. For long moments, Jim lay breathing into Spock's hair, the rise and fall of his chest taut against Spock's own. He seemed so light for as solid as he was, perhaps on account of the observed weight loss. Irrational, Spock knew: a side-effect of worry and fondness.

Jim tapped twice on Spock's temple. "I hear that clockwork ticking away."

Spock smiled against his cheek, wide and unabashed, unseen.

_T'hy'la, would you have me otherwise?_

Jim's hand drifted to find Spock's against the pillow, his breath evening into sleep.


	9. Ship and Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's more to poetry than simple metaphor.

_A little star of brilliant hope in skies of black we are,  
and Danish blue is the color of your eyes in June.  
For many days, I've woken with head pains, my eyes ablaze—  
you never knew, because I never told you._

—This Is Me, Terran 21st-century

 

*

 

What good was the promise he'd never lose the _Enterprise_ if he'd nearly broken it?

Agreeing to participate in the testing of M5 had been Jim's first mistake. Even though the request had come through Starfleet with full marks of approval, he still should have known better. There were men and there were machines, and he'd always been more inclined to trust the former over the latter. Daystrom had been the deal-breaker, he supposed. How could Starfleet say no to the man whose technology made the very foundations of its mission possible? No, Jim couldn't blame them for that.

It was far easier to blame himself for not having had the foresight to reconsider, to suggest an alternative to his superiors— _anything_ to have averted the catastrophe they were left with, the cost of so many unsuspecting lives. He and Spock were lucky to have gotten out of the situation without so much as a mild reprimand, that was for certain. And as for his First Officer, well—Jim could not have expected objection. As it was in his nature to lead, it was in Spock's nature to follow orders.

Long fingers splayed at his temples, pinpoints of warmth. In spite of Spock's careful deliberation, there was teasing in the gesture. This was not a meld.

"I find it difficult to rest when you cling to such determined wakefulness."

Jim rolled onto his back, flinging one arm up above his head. Spock shifted to accommodate him, withdrawing his hand as quickly as he had offered it. The four-hour debriefing session had left them both drained, and Bones had done his best impression of suffering an aneurysm when Jim had refused to come in for stress monitoring. He hadn't even tried to convince Spock to do the same.

"I'm sorry," Jim sighed. "I can't get this M5 business out of my head. And Daystrom, good God. What'll they do to him? Make a lab-rat of him just like he did to himself?"

"He has been assigned to a facility of highest repute," Spock murmured, his fingers already finding new purpose along Jim's collarbone. "I have no doubt that he will receive the finest treatment possible. However, the experience will not be entirely...pleasant. I, too, regret this state of affairs. Daystrom is a significant loss."

 _To humanity or technology?_ Jim wanted to ask, but he swiftly suppressed the irreverent thought. There was no need to doubt Spock's motivations, not anymore. His public profession of loyalty had been more than sufficient by way of demonstration.

 _To Starfleet_ , replied Spock, with no trace of bitterness. His index finger sought briefly after Jim's pulse, monitored it for a few seconds before, seemingly content, drifting to curl at the hollow of his throat with the lightest scratch of closely-clipped nail.

"Bones could've left off teasing," Jim said, catching Spock's hand and pressing it there. "It didn't help matters. I'm amazed you put up with him at times like that."

"The Doctor has his own methods for coping with tense situations," said Spock, mildly. "Who am I to interfere with the mental discipline of another, as illogical as it may seem?" Jim turned his head just in time to catch Spock's smile as it receded.

"I'll catch you one of these days," Jim said, jabbing a finger at the corner of Spock's mouth. "Just you wait. I've got your number, mister."

Spock tilted his chin slightly, propped up on one elbow. His expression was feigned, no doubt of it: affectionate satisfaction masquerading as irritated inquiry.

"Indeed, Captain. Every last digit, and, no doubt, by heart."

"It's easy to tell when you're proud of yourself, you know that?"

"For you, perhaps, and even for Leonard," Spock said, bending to brush the briefest of kisses against Jim's lips. "Otherwise, I should hope that my secret is safe."

"Of course," Jim said, reaching up to muss Spock's infuriatingly perfect hair. "I couldn't possibly allow the crew to go around secure in the knowledge you're every bit as passionate as the next guy. They'd never take you seriously again."

"If by the 'next' individual fitting such a description, you mean _yourself_ —"

Incandescent, the knowledge that Spock had dredged his mind out of that endless quagmire of Daystrom's creation without the benefit of a meld. How had he ever steered himself aright before he'd known this bright, strange soul? Surely he'd never truly known himself, either, or the full extent of his command capabilities. With Spock never more than a breath or a step behind him, how could he be anything _but_ confident? Still, there was loss, the sadness that always came haunting...

_What does this profit you, t'hy'la, when we have lived another day?_

Jim returned the kiss, blindly seeking Spock's fingers, which cradled his face in earnest now, the warmth already flaring through every part of him.

_It profits me to remember that I'm human. Never to fall so far._

Spock paused, breathing harshly against Jim's neck. _So far?_

_As Daystrom. As Karidian. As Khan._

Spock's breath gentled, and the meld ebbed to nothing. _You are not those men_.

Jim nodded, almost hesitantly. "No, but I'm still a man."

"As am I, although you would forget it."

"No more talking. I'm tired," Jim sighed, pressing their foreheads together. He let his eyes drift shut, comforted to know only this, simply to _be_.

Spock was smiling again, Jim was sure, but he'd give him the benefit of the doubt.

"As am I, _t'hy'la_." Of course he'd speak it, just to be contrary.

"You sure took a while to make your point."

" _On_ the contrary, I began by stating it."

Jim huffed and held him closer. _Of course I would have you otherwise: I'd have had you any way you came to my ship, you stubborn, wonderful star._


	10. Revolving Doors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Achieving a three-way balance is easier done than said.

_The hours of the day wonder how they've been spent;  
The creases on the bed grow deep, I've made my descent.  
This is me:  
All that I am.  
You will see  
all that I have:  
This is me._

—This Is Me, Terran 21st-century

 

*

 

It was the Doctor who sought Spock in the end, rather than the other way around. The laboratory door so rarely slid open when Spock was alone running analysis, unless it announced Jim's presence. That it was not Jim standing there with an uncertain look in his eyes took Spock somewhat aback. Then again, what they had been through together on 892-IV had been...enlightening. Spock could allow that much.

"Listen, Spock," McCoy began, his hands tightly clasped behind his back, "about what I said down there, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. We were both deeply concerned about Jim, and that was pretty obvious. I should have just left it—"

"Do not trouble yourself with apologies, Doctor," said Spock, carefully tilting the remainder of his soil sample into a test tube. "I have little use for them."

McCoy snorted. "Now, you're just being ridiculous. I offended you. I'm sorry."

"On the contrary, you were curiously inoffensive in comparison to any number of past instances of your general behavior towards me." Spock removed his safety goggles and set them aside, indicating his readiness to talk. "For that, Doctor, I should at least thank you. I am aware that humans find the sentiment gratifying."

"I sincerely hope you're not being sarcastic," said McCoy, his expression curiously unguarded, perhaps even slightly hurt. "I've known you for long enough to understand what your double-talk means."

Spock stiffened, vaguely mortified that he had evidently been unsuccessful in quelling the annoyance he had been intruded upon by someone other than the Captain. "Then it is I who owe _you_ an apology, Doctor. I had not wished to be disturbed."

McCoy's mouth quirked into a half-smile. "That's what voice-lock is for, Spock. This conversation could've waited till later. I'm sure you wouldn't have turned down an offer of dinner with yours truly, now would you?"

"Unlikely, Doctor," Spock admitted, somewhat relieved. "Your company is...agreeable."

"Anyhow, I thought I'd let you know that everything checks out. None of us seem to have sustained any injuries or psychological damage down there. It amazes me that Jim can recover so quickly from the loss of a friend."

"Merik will, indeed, be missed," Spock said, moving around the work station to stand nearer to the Doctor. "As he was _already_ missed."

McCoy's eyes crinkled at the corners, softened by something resembling pity. He reached out and clapped Spock on the shoulder, and then gentled the gesture to a light squeeze. The contact was not pleasing, but it was not unwelcome, either.

"Have I ever mentioned that I have no idea what Jim would do without you?"

Spock shifted and straightened, successfully dislodging McCoy's hand. "I am certain that he would continue to captain this ship to the best of his abilities, and no doubt succeed. You would do better to question how _we_ would function without _him_."

"True enough, Spock," sighed McCoy, leaning heavily on the counter. "But I wonder—"

"You two have developed the annoying habit of vanishing off together lately," Jim announced, abruptly striding through the laboratory door. "Is there any fallout I should be concerned about, or is this just a casual _tête-à-tête_?"

"The Doctor was just informing me that we have returned from our sojourn on planet 892-IV in one piece," Spock said, taking comfort in Jim's easy smile. "Additionally, none of my tests on local flora and fauna samples indicate any substances that would endanger the hand-to-mouth existence of those fugitive slaves."

"The Children of the Sun," McCoy mused. "Or, as it were, _Son_. Well, I'll tell you one thing: they're brave to resist the Empire. If they succeed in the long run, I hope whatever changes they make will bring about peace and tolerance for everyone."

The shadow of Earth's history hung poised between them, a delicate, unspoken shame. Spock could not think of any examples from his birth-planet's past that could rival the cruelties that Earth's major religions had committed not only against each other, but against millions of innocent bystanders as well.

"The best laid plans," Jim murmured, catching Spock's eye. "Good luck to them, anyway; I don't plan on checking in any time soon." He glanced sidelong at Bones. "Doctor, would you mind—?"

"Not at all," said McCoy, nodding to both of them. "I'll see you gentlemen later."

"What's he giving you trouble about now?" Jim asked, still smiling.

Spock turned back to the sample he had abandoned and tapped the test tube until its contents settled. "Doctor McCoy wished to inform me that nothing is amiss with any of us in spite of our recent travails."

"Did he, now," Jim murmured, and although Spock was not looking at him, it was clear by his tone that he was not buying _any_ of it. "I thought maybe he'd dropped by to thank you for saving his life. He's been working on the whole politeness thing."

Spock glanced up briefly and nodded. "One might say he has even been congenial."

"He's not under orders, I can promise you that." Jim leaned over to watch the experiment's progress, idly setting a hand between Spock's shoulder blades. Such warmth, Spock still had to marvel at it: where one friend's touch brought surprise, neither wanted nor unwelcome, Jim's hands were a constant reminder that Spock needed _his_ touch just as any being of their mutual constitution needed oxygen.

"I did not believe him to be," Spock said, setting the test tube aside in defeat. "Especially given the circumstances under which we were made to endure each other's presence for quite a considerable amount of time." Ever so slightly, he leaned back.

Jim's fingers slid upward, curling around Spock's shoulder. "I worried for you, too," he said, softly, his breath close to Spock's ear. "Every moment. And it's getting worse all the time. I know you're perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, and Bones too, the cantankerous bastard, but the minute you're out of my sight, it's..."

 _Bogozh fi'Terra_ , Spock thought, hardly daring to move as Jim's other arm encircled his waist. "Hell on Earth, as you would put it."

"Or worse," Jim said, seemingly content to keep as they were. "One of these days, we're going to beam down to some God-forsaken rock where they kill all intruders on sight, no questions asked. Sometimes I think it'd be easier."

 _Only if I were with you, t'hy'la_. Spock permitted himself to relax somewhat, seeking Jim's hand where it rested against his stomach. "Perhaps you should not have made such a confession," he said. "You will find me less inclined to stay behind when you insist upon figuring yourself prominently in a small landing party."

Jim drew in his breath, as if Spock had issued a challenge. "And if I order you to stay behind?" he asked, tentatively lacing their fingers together. Oh, but he had been _quick_ to learn such Vulcan subtleties as nuanced hand-to-hand contact.

Spock turned to face him, dislodging all of their efforts at a careful, unhurried seduction. It was late afternoon by the ship's clock, and both of them were still on duty. Very rarely did either of them take such an extravagant risk.

"Then I shall protest, Captain. As usual."

"Yes," Jim sighed, regarding him pensively. "I know."

Spock was almost disappointed when the intercom crackled to life, demanding Jim's attention. He left a Spock with a kiss, the briefest chaste press of his lips.

 _One day this will undo us_ , Spock thought. He resumed the goggles, but his heart was not in the task. Where it was, safe with Jim, it would just have to wait.

* * *

"You're really not joking, are you?" Bones asked, not nearly incredulous enough for Jim's liking. "You know, I wouldn't have put it past you two just to be having me on."

"What would you like me to say?" Jim asked, finding himself suddenly disinterested in the whiskey that Scotty had so kindly loaned to Bones. "That it's just another fling and it'll be over with by the time we've hit the next star system?"

"Well, _no_ ," Bones said, gesturing expansively, his inebriated tone indicating that he thought that was the daftest thing Jim could have possibly said. "Just tell me that you're not jerking my chain, for crying out loud!"

"Given I'm not the one who brought this up, which I find _hilarious_ , by the way," Jim reassured him, forcing down a mouthful of peat-flavored fire, "no, we're not having you on. And I don't want to talk about this anymore."

Bones shook his head and did another shot. "Boy, Nurse Chapel's going to be put out."

" _Bones_ —"

"It explains a lot, though," said McCoy, almost thoughtfully. "It really does. Well, anyway, good for you. That's one less thing I have to worry about."

"What might that be?" Jim asked, wondering since when it was that two shots of twelve-year aged whiskey could make his head start to swim. What they were doing was trying _not_ to discuss this, because any minute now—

"I, too, would be most curious to know," Spock cut in, regarding them from the doorway. Jim also wondered since when two shots of whiskey affected his hearing.

"Keeping each other out of goddamn trouble, that's what," McCoy said, patting Spock on the shoulder as he left, bottle in hand. "Lots more incentive, wouldn't you say?"

What Jim _wouldn't_ have given to react with no more than a raised eyebrow and an imperceptible shrug, he couldn't say. Then again, Bones had kept things between the lines, right where they belonged. If he'd been any drunker, though, it might've been a different story. Spock was standing right in front of Jim by now, frowning slightly.

"You are mildly intoxicated, Jim."

"It'll wear off soon."

Unexpectedly, Spock leaned in and kissed him with a level of fervor that was shocking even after knowing how maddeningly possessive Vulcans tended to be in love. Jim would have toppled off-balance if not for Spock's arms, closed vise-like around him.

"Your recklessness today was uncalled-for," said Spock, matter-of-factly, already leading him towards the bed. His tone was otherwise unreadable.

"I can think of several times recently _you've_ been pretty reckless," Jim managed, too dazed to mind this turn of events, never mind that Spock might be angry.

If he _was_ angry, however, nothing in the way that he methodically stripped Jim of his clothing seemed to suggest it. Even the urgency of his kiss was absent here in the graceful, measured slide of his hands from Jim's collarbone down to his waistband. Spock unfastened the garment and knocked Jim back onto the bed in one efficient movement. What it was, Jim couldn't recall even a few seconds later, because by then he was naked and Spock was in the process of _getting_ naked, and in spite of Spock's meticulousness in this, too, it was still the hottest thing that Jim had ever seen.

"Then we are, as the Doctor is so fond of putting it, even," Spock said, sliding from where he'd been sitting at the foot of the bed up the length of Jim's body.

What Jim wanted to say was that he had better things to be thinking about at the minute than goddamn Bones, but it came out as a choked moan as Spock settled against him. Beneath the muted glow of desire in those dark, pensive eyes, there was something else—not anger, as Jim had thought, but a quiet, fitful desperation.

And Spock's fingers were there at his temples, at his cheeks, at his jawline, the words mumbled between brief, fretful kisses and thrusts that they couldn't quite still.

_Do not ask me to leave you, t'hy'la. Never, **never** ask it!_

_I won't_ , thought Jim, drowning in it. _How could I? Would you ask it of me?_

Beneath the frenzied haze of the meld, their bodies were already slick with sweat, movements frantic. Spock's fingers twisted wildly in Jim's hair, his other hand straying to hitch Jim's knee up tight to his hip, thrusting harder.

_—never never never Jim but if your life depended—_

Lost, _all_ lost in the hopeless, bliss-torn rush that gripped them both. Even as the pounding in his ears began to fade and Spock's dead weight in his arms trembled back to life, Jim could only think that if his existence depended on anything, it was this.

"It would seem," Spock said, his voice rough, "that I am not doing a very good job."

" _Hm_?" Jim asked, still working on breathing properly.

"Keeping you out of trouble." Spock sounded perilously close to amused.

Jim covered Spock's lips with his fingers, feeling them slowly spread.

 _Gotcha_ , he thought. For one perfect moment, everything else could wait.


	11. Incidentals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even successful missions result in negative fall-out.

_Darling, I'm lost,  
adrift in the dark.  
I'm clutching your words  
to my vampire heart once more.  
So let in the light,  
turn me to dust.  
If it don't end in bloodshed, dear,  
it's probably not love._

—My Vampire Heart, Terran Anonymous 

[ _Source lost. However, the substitution of "Vulcan" for "vampire" is not an uncommon cultural jest._ ]

 

*

 

"So much for keeping each other out of trouble," said McCoy, too cheerfully, considering the task he was about to undertake. "This is going to sting a little."

Jim winced as the reconstitution beam passed over the pointed tip of his right ear. He'd often heard that it felt something like the old laser technology that had once been used for tattoo removal. If he wasn't mistaken, Bones had enjoyed the entire process far more than he ought to have done. It would make for good gossip later, once Spock was finished with placating their prisoner. Spock's enjoyment of Bones-centric small talk was second only to the relish he took in one-upping the CMO.

Christine Chapel teasingly patted the back of his hand. "One more to go, Captain. It's a good thing those eyebrows are just prosthetics!"

"Sadists," Jim muttered, sucking in his breath as Bones chuckled and moved on to his other ear. "The whole lot of you. This is the last time I'll take covert-ops disguise to such an extreme, is that clear?" He winced, squeezing Christine's hand a bit harder than was necessary. The procedure was already finished.

Bones grinned down at him. "And now, let's see about those eyebrows—"

" _Ouch!_ " Christine let go of his hand in a hurry.

"It's no less than you deserve for your foolishness," Bones told him, discarding the yanked-off prosthetics. "Starfleet orders or no. Next time I'm forced to declare you mentally unstable, the circumstances had better be genuine."

"If I have anything to say about it, you'll never have to do it again," Jim said, hastily sitting up. "Believe me. And what did you use to attach those things, anyway?"

Christine beamed. "Spirit Gum," she said. "There's nothing like an old classic."

"I'm getting out of here before you two decide I'd look good as a Klingon," Jim said, retreating for the door. He ran his fingers over the shells of his ears, satisfied that they'd been put back to rights. Of the two areas, his eyebrows stung the worst.

When Jim returned to the bridge, Spock was not there.

"Sulu," he said. "Reduce speed to warp two. Have you seen Spock?"

"Aye, sir," Sulu replied. "And no, sir. He hasn't yet returned."

"Very well," Jim sighed. "Scotty, you have the conn. I'll return shortly."

"Aye, Captain," said Scott, grinning ear to ear. "If you don't mind my saying so, sir, you're looking a bit pink about the eyes. Maybe you ought to have kept it after all!"

"Over Doctor McCoy's dead body," Jim said, stepping into the turbolift.

As it turned out, Spock wasn't in his quarters—and he wasn't in Jim's, either. He wasn't even in the lab, which might have been the logical choice if he'd wanted to clear his head after the grueling few hours they'd just endured. It was both true and untrue, what Bones had said in sickbay. Although it was true they'd managed to get into more trouble than ever, they'd at least achieved a higher quota of getting into dangerous situations _together_. And it was rather hypocritical of Bones to forget he was, more often than not, in the mix with them.

 _Deck four_ , Jim thought, returning to the turbolift. _He must still be with that Romulan_.

The quarters they'd assigned to her were normally reserved for visiting dignitaries. Jim reached the door and found it closed, but he couldn't hear voices from inside. As her host, it would only be proper to pay her a visit and ask if the required anything.

What he saw as the door slid open was puzzling, but stranger things had happened.

The Romulan—an elegant creature, he had to admit, rendered all the more impressive by her dignity under such dishonorable circumstances—caught his eye almost immediately, arching one exotic eyebrow. Spock stepped away from her, head tilted towards the floor, but whether it was because he'd been nodding in polite response to something or because he'd been caught at a moment he deemed inopportune, Jim couldn't quite tell. He recovered himself quickly, his head held high, serene dark eyes fixed critically on Jim's restored features. He approved.

"Captain," he said, hands folded behind his back. "I was just leaving."

Jim nodded. "Very well," he said. "My quarters, twenty minutes."

"Yes, sir," said Spock, and left, apparently in a slight hurry.

The Romulan stared at Jim, unblinking, as if she could not comprehend what business he could possibly have with her. After a few seconds of consideration, she smiled.

"Captain Kirk," she said. "I thank you for your kindness. Most Earth men wouldn't have shown such courtesy. Any other captain would have thrown me in the brig."

"I should hope I've proven that I'm not most men," Jim said, returning her smile.

"Nor is Commander Spock," she said, finally turning away. She studied her reflection in the vanity mirror, and then turned back to Jim. "You are yourself once more, I see."

"Yes, well," replied Jim, bothered by the knowing twitch of her lips. "I really don't think the look suited. I came to ask if you're comfortable. Do you need anything?"

The Romulan shook her head, eyes sweeping gracefully closed. 

"You've anticipated my every wish."

 _Except one_ , Jim thought, biting the inside of his cheek. _And I won't let you have him_. 

"Then I shall bid you good evening," he said instead, nodding before heading back to the door. "Just contact a yeoman via the intercom if you find anything lacking."

"I'll not trouble them for what they can't bring," she said. "Good night, Captain."

"You too," Jim said, halfway out the door, mind racing. _Spock, what have you done?_

It was the first thing out of his mouth as he entered his own quarters—where Spock stood at attention beside Jim's desk, as if he'd been anticipating just such a question.

"What was necessary," replied Spock, but the troubled cast to his eyes belied his calm. "She came on, as you would put it, rather strong. I thought it best to follow her lead. It yielded results, did it not?"

Jim ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "Yes, I'd say it produced results all right. Not only did we successfully complete the mission, but she's got the hots for you."

Spock raised both eyebrows, a rare extravagance. "She did seem rather...taken."

"So did you, if I didn't know any better." Jim tried not to sound bitter.

"The Commander is a charming woman," Spock said evenly, taking a step closer to Jim. "I enjoyed both her conversation and her company. Is this not an activity in which you yourself have been known to indulge with females of—well, a good many species, Captain, if I may speak freely."

 _Captain_. Jim closed his eyes for an instant, helplessly picturing the Romulan commander. Spock could deliver a slap in the face without even lifting a finger.

"You may always speak freely, Spock," he said, letting his breath out slowly.

"Thank you, Jim," said Spock, his tone sorrowful. "She is lonelier than you can possibly know. I daresay I took pity on her. Can you forgive me that weakness?"

"Weakness?" Jim asked, abruptly guilty. "Anyone else would call it a virtue. Of course I can forgive you. I don't think there's anything to forgive. It's just—"

"What _have_ I done, indeed?"

Jim closed his mouth. _Good God, I'm sorry_.

Spock took another step forward, until they were nearly touching. And then they _were_ touching, Jim's arms wound around Spock's narrow shoulders and Spock's precise fingers framing Jim's face. It was easier this way, really. Easier than having to talk or rave or shout, easier than having to admit to Spock that he'd given in to foolish jealousy. Spock's thoughts ebbed through him in waves tinged gently with regret.

_Oh if I had known what it would do to you I would never have done it never—_

"Spock," Jim whispered, lightly taking hold of Spock's wrists. " _Spock_."

Spock shook his head once, fiercely. Unintelligible Vulcan, and then— _I was wrong_.

"Bones thinks we were both wrong," Jim volunteered, stroking Spock's wrists before letting his fingers skate up the backs of his hands. "Those orders were reckless, even for Starfleet. We had little choice in the matter."

"I could have exercised better judgment," Spock said, his voice a low rasp.

"Forget it," Jim said. "You exercised what judgment you saw fit."

"Reckless," Spock said, clearly heading into full self-castigation mode.

"Fearless," Jim insisted, tilting Spock's chin up so that they looked each other in the eyes. "Just do me one favor, would you, for the remainder of this leg of the journey?"

"Anything, Captain," said Spock, quietly grateful. "Jim."

"Stay out of trouble," Jim said, leaning in close. "I've got a promise to keep."

"That should not be difficult." Spock's breath tickled Jim's lips.

"And leave her alone," added Jim, gravely. "She's got enough to think about."

"Is that an order?" Spock asked. The light brush of his mouth suggested a tease.

"No," Jim said. "That's another promise. One _you'd_ better keep." _Or Bones will hear all about your failed Romulan romance, and he'll never let you live it down_.

By way of answer, Spock smiled and let him see it.


	12. Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> History has a way of repeating itself long after the fact.

_Something is found,  
something is lost—  
went looking for clues  
on the streets of old New York.  
And I spilled someone's blood,  
I broke someone's heart again—  
someone you know.  
You're looking at him, my friend._

—My Vampire Heart, Terran Anonymous

 

*

 

At the first inquiring brush of Dr. Jones's mind—delicate, like fingertips skimming still water—Spock had caught a half-remembered glimmer of her face. It slid effortlesly sideways and back, to a time and place that, much to his shame, still haunted him.

_Who was she, Spock, this woman I remind you of, for whom you bear such hate?_

Not _can you hear me?_ or _let me help you_ , but a challenge. A taunt. As deeply disordered as the encounter with Kollos had left him, Spock had just enough presence of mind to understand that this anything-but-chance encounter would mean the difference between a return to normal or lying there for good, trapped to the death. Would Miranda Jones choose the role of savior or that of destroying angel?

_Which did you choose, Spock, when the time came to save her or leave her?_

She had found those final moments and extracted them with all the uncanny ease of his dreams: the sound of clockwork engines and the bystanders' shouts of panic. Edith's last wild, startled glance before the truck made impact. She hadn't looked at Jim. She'd looked at _Spock_. As if she'd known from the start how this would end.

 _In my place_ , he ventured, _would you have done otherwise, Doctor?_

And Spock felt it, then: the way that Miranda bore him that self-same hate.

_You have had what I cannot, just as Edith had, at that time, what you didn't have the courage to take. Fortunately, the entirety of Earth's history depended upon her death. At least you can hide behind that. I can hide nothing now, not even my blindness!_

_I had wondered_ , Spock admitted. _Tell me, are you here of your own accord?_

Another ripple, those fingertips hesitant, yet graceful. He felt them against his face.

_You're already surfacing. You would have recovered had I come to you or not._

_And why is that?_ Spock asked. He tested his fingers, felt them twitch against the bed.

_Because both truth and beauty await you. For me, there is only truth._

As weak as he was, Spock pressed forward, meeting the edges of her thoughts and finding no resistence there. Jim, angry and insistent, confronting her with her own jealousy. Jim, fighting for him. Always speaking the truth, always beautiful.

_I do not think you would find him so. Not as beautiful as you find Kollos._

_I will never see my beloved_ , Miranda despaired. _You have seen the face that is dearest to me in all of the universe. And I have seen, perhaps, a fraction of the face that is dearest to you—not as you see it, of course. Still. Your people taught me well_.

Spock tried to open his eyes, but could not. His arms were leaden. He understood.

_What must I give you before you will free me, Doctor Jones? Some sign of goodwill? You should know that you already have it. I wish you only the best in your new life._

_Easy_ , she shot back. _A life that you rejected._

 _A life I gave up for what I loved most._ Spock curled his fingers into fists.

_My, my. This can't be easy for you, admitting to such...emotion._

_Nor for you, I should think. You are satisfied that I've been shamed, is that so?_

Sorrow washed over him in relentless waves, ripples edging ever outward into the void of space. She had never once let it show; there was no trace of grief in her bearing. Entirely human by birth, this woman, and she was more Vulcan than Spock himself.

 _No_ , she thought. _I sense no shame in your love. You're ashamed of your demons, that much is clear, but how could you possibly be ashamed of Captain James T. Kirk?_

 _Release me_ , Spock implored her. _Kollos awaits. His world is next for you_.

 _Next for **us**_ , came the echo, and all was quiet except for the monitor above Spock's head. Somewhere to Spock's right, Jim's breath left him in a barely contained rush.

"Good grief, Spock," said McCoy, grinning like a loon over Miranda's shoulder. "I thought we'd lost you. Doctor Jones, you have my thanks. Jim was beside himself."

Spock let his eyes drift shut and squeezed the familiar hand that had taken hold of his own. He didn't need to turn his head to look, didn't need confirmation of what was and always would be there. Come what may, he'd carry these ghosts, dark-haired and pale-eyed both, as reminders of what truth had both cost and bought him.


	13. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second chances don't always mean you're in the clear.

_Here we are  
in the darkest place:  
to keep from forgetting,  
I picture your face._

—My Vampire Heart, Terran Anonymous

 

*

 

The blackness had been so engulfing, so _absolute_ , that it had taken Jim what seemed like hours just to determine what had happened. The _Defiant_ and its dead crew had vanished around him; that much had been clear. Fleetingly, he'd cursed himself for having ordered Spock back to the _Enterprise_ —and had just as quickly felt immense relief. If the ship and all its contents had vanished around him, then _he_ must have vanished with it. The thought of Spock vanishing before his very eyes—there with him, yet _not_ —had been almost too much to bear.

In those brief glimpses, he'd seen them just as they'd been able to see them. First Uhura, alone, and then the entire bridge crew. And just as it had been in his fevered imaginings, it was Spock who had been nearest to him, those dark eyes wide in their subdued, yet piercing version of amazement. So he'd shouted for all he was worth, knowing already that Uhura hadn't heard him.

_Hurry, Spock. **Hurry!**_

And Spock had read him, if not heard him. Had reached out with one unsteady, disbelieving hand to touch him. Had faded to nothingness before his eyes.

Jim snapped the box shut, shaken from his reverie by the sound of his cabin door. He didn't need to turn to know who was there, even if it would have been perfectly reasonable for Bones to show up, tell him how glad he was that Jim had made it.

"You were here," he said, tilting the box until the medal inside it made a sound. "You went through my things." A sharp breath behind him, all restrained regret.

"I had no other choice. For all intents and purposes, you were gone."

 _Gone_. Jim turned to face Spock, finding it impossible to respond. Not _dead_ , but merely _not there_. Invisible, irretrievable, lost—but not out of reach. Somehow.

"You watched my last orders," he concluded, offering the box to Spock. "Both of you?"

"Yes, Jim," Spock confirmed, hesitating, his eyes fixed on the offering with discomfort. "Both of us. And I think I need not tell you that the Doctor was...his usual contrary self. At first." He finally took the box, opening it for a brief, wistful glance before setting it aside with the rest of Jim's effects. "I hope that I will not have to accept such a token again for a very long time," he admitted, reaching for Jim instead.

"Token?" Jim asked, frowning as Spock took his hands and leaned close. "I don't recall leaving a will detailing what should go to whom. You'd be free to take whatever you wanted, of course, before anybody else got to pick over—"

"Doctor McCoy seemed to think that I should have it," said Spock, gravely. He lifted one hand to frame Jim's face, an eerie echo of his gesture on the bridge. "I would have kept it with me always, Jim. I will carry some part of you until the very end."

It was another of those moments that didn't quite feel _real_ , one of those moments that might shimmer and dissipate around him just as the ghosts of the _Defiant_ had done. He had always known that Spock felt more deeply than any of them could guess—and even once he had guessed, had come to _know_ firsthand what lurked just beneath each gesture, each last piercing glance, nothing could have prepared him for confessions such as this. Spock kissed him, chaste and reverent, and in that single act expressed both boundless grief and joyous relief beyond measure.

"I carried _you_ with me," Jim admitted, fearing that his words would seem trite in the shadow of Spock's absolute candor. "Wished I'd let you stay instead of ordering you back, but that was selfish. I couldn't put you in harm's way, and I will _never_ —"

"No more," Spock rasped, his voice harsh. His fingers were in Jim's hair now, at his temple, trembling as if to resist the urge to meld. To see what Jim had seen, to feel it.

_Just to know, t'hy'la. Just to have been with you in the dark._

Jim fought back anger, braced himself against the sheer _fury_ of knowing that Spock had suffered so. "I couldn't reach _you_ when that plotting bitch Miranda tried—"

"Forget her," Spock insisted, tugging at Jim's hands once more. "Jim. _This_."

And he'd forget anything, gladly, just to have another moment like the one he was in: Spock drawing forward, out of the blackness. In truth, there had been many—more instances in which he knew he'd made Spock worry than he would have liked, more situations in which he'd been dragged from darkness, literal or metaphorical, by the touch of Spock's fingers and the sound of his voice. His stranding some months earlier on that remote planet inhabited by Indians was hazy at best and a total blur at worst. He'd awakened, as Spock put it, to _this_. It was worth any amount of forgetting.

 _No more_. Spock kissed Jim again, insistently, drawing him towards the bed.

Under normal circumstances, Spock would have dominated him—would have seen to Jim's needs, mercilessly _and_ mercifully, almost at the expense of his own. But he seemed to crumble when Jim placed both hands on his shoulders and urged him down, fell bonelessly back against the awkward smash of two regulation pillows where only one had ever been intended to rest. He didn't protest when Jim began to undress him, didn't so much as speak when Jim finally discarded his briefs on the floor and rose to quickly undress himself. Jim only noticed the fine, tightly-wound tremors in him as he climbed back onto the bed, bracing his hands alongside Spock's shoulders.

"Spock," he murmured, nudging the slender thighs apart with his knee. "There's no shame in what you did. And there's no shame in the fact you held that service. The crew needed closure in order to act."

Spock's eyes flashed with anger, his hands rising to grip Jim's shoulders. " _Enough_."

"No, it wasn't," Jim insisted, bearing down on him with a bruising kiss. "But it is _now_ , and that's the important thing," he panted, lowering his head to Spock's shoulder to rest there for a moment. Such a comfort, to settle against the long, familiar body and know that he had not lost what still, at times, felt all too tenuous in its immensity.

Despite the sudden sense of desperation that had risen in them both, it was not over quickly. Spock wound about him, then, both vine-like and vise-like, and touched every inch of Jim's skin that he could possibly reach. His breath was ragged against Jim's ear, reminiscent of the sobbing that Jim had so rarely heard, yet knew Spock to be capable of. If this was retroactive grieving, then Jim was no one to deny Spock his indulgence. He clasped Spock impossibly closer, shifting with each fretful thrust.

When Spock tensed under him, Jim caught and held the restless head still, finding Spock's cheek damp with tears beneath his palm. Bent to kiss him softly as he came.

"Jim," breathed Spock, hoarsely, heavy-lidded with sudden exhaustion. "You..."

"No," Jim reassured him, lifting himself just enough to clean the mess with one drawn-up corner of the coverlet. "No need for it. Go to sleep, Spock." 

The job wasn't perfect, but it would do. He rose in spite of Spock's wince of protest and wrestled the sheets down from under him. Spock curled back against Jim almost instantly when he returned to bed. The covers felt cool and reassuring. He wrapped an arm around Spock and ordered the lights down, trying not to think about the shame that Spock would feel, come morning, for having shown such vulnerability.

"There's no shame in any of it," he whispered, smoothing the last of the dampness from Spock's cheek and into the feathery mess of his hair. "Do you read me?"

Spock nodded absently, the glint of his eyes already lost to the dark.


	14. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If they've learned anything in return, it's that words don't always suffice.

_And I wonder,  
while we count the cost,  
which is sweeter—  
love or its loss?_

—My Vampire Heart, Terran Anonymous

 

*

 

If not for her slight hesitation, Spock would have flung her hand off without a thought.

And if he was honest with himself, the contact had taken him off-guard: so different from Miranda's violent domination, that gentle touch that had demanded nothing more than he had been willing to give. Between his surprise and his all-consuming worry for Jim, he'd felt the need to hide nothing, once he had come to terms with being read. Gem's fingers drank up his emotions with no effort at all, and her face—

To say that he had never seen such implicit expressiveness was not strictly true. By whatever twist of fate, the _Enterprise_ was populated by a handful of the most unreserved humans he'd ever had the fascination of knowing. Chief amongst them, of course, was Leonard McCoy; even Jim had a way of masking his emotions when it was prudent to do so. Their Good Doctor, in contrast, either had no such reservations or no such ability. For quite some time, Spock had considered his frank openness the deepest of flaws imaginable. In that instant, he'd thought of the irony.

Gem's features had softened in the plainest, most graceful understanding.

She'd seen his care for both of them, Spock supposed—the way in which there was no question that _he_ must be the one to come to harm, not either of the others. She had also gathered his intense concern for Jim in the heel of her palm, a thousand tiny needles of regret. If Spock had gone, if all had not gone well—that moment by Jim's side would, indeed, have been his last. Some part of him had believed it, and it was, perhaps, that part of him that had been nearest the surface. The undercurrent of sadness in Gem's still eyes haunted him. In showing her love, he'd shown her loss.

In lifting her hand, she'd left him with an imprint of quiet astonishment.

Spock had been grateful that she hadn't interfered when he'd been about the business of seeing to it that Doctor McCoy was comfortable. It was as if she'd known that the damage had been done and that the worst had been yet to come. And Spock had realized, trapped with Jim inside the forcefield, that he would have given anything to rush forward and wrest the pain from her mind in those agonizing, interminable seconds of torture. Surely he had already hurt her enough.

The truth was, Spock could conceive of no pain worse than the prospect of losing Jim. After having faced the threat several times over, lifting McCoy's pain from Gem—or at least sharing in it—would have seemed almost inconsequential.

Jim stepped back as the meld ended, his eyes round with amazement.

"You really couldn't have explained it any other way?" he asked, sagging against the desk in exhaustion. "Because I think we've all had enough of this for one day."

Spock bowed his head in apology, resisting the urge to give in to the protestations of his own body. "The subtlety of the exchange wouldn't have translated well into words."

Jim smiled. "As long as you don't give it to Bones like that, we're in the clear."

Surrendering, Spock sat down on the edge of the desk. The impropriety didn't bear considering. Predictably, Jim showed no signs of finding his behavior inappropriate.

"I would advise him against _any_ manner of telepathic contact for the time being."

"Have you melded with him beyond that one time on Melkot?"

"No," said Spock, leaning into Jim's shoulder, permitting himself a rare attempt at humor. "I should like to think I would do so only if my life depended on it."

Jim's kiss caught him nearly as unaware as Gem's touch had done.

"Would you _really_ have gone to the Vians without saying goodbye?"

Spock blinked at him, once, slowly. "You would not have awakened in time."

"What kind of excuse is that?" Jim asked. "And what if I'd ordered you to stay?"

"With all due respect, I would not have given you the chance."

Jim sighed, leaning in again. "Let's hope you never get to test that theory."

"Knowing nothing is certain, I hope for nothing," Spock lied, leaning to meet him.

 _Except this_ , Jim thought, catching Spock's lower lip briefly between his teeth.

 _Except_ , Spock wanted to think, but held his silence, _that you go on living_.


	15. Risks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recklessness and forgiveness make for strange bedfellows.

_So I curse you,  
my [Vulcan] heart,  
for letting me love you,  
love you—  
for letting me love you  
from the start._

—My Vampire Heart, Terran Anonymous

 

*

 

It had been selfish of him, Jim knew, but he hadn't been about to take any chances.

That the landing party should consist of Spock, Bones, and himself had not been up for debate, even though he had gotten some questioning looks from Uhura, Scott, and Sulu. What had caused the outbreak of Rigelian fever, no one could guess. Of the bridge crew, only Chekov had fallen prey—and Bones had quarantined him so quickly that the action had, in all likelihood, spared the rest of them.

The matter had not been up for debate for several reasons, most of which, officially speaking, were logical even by Vulcan standards. One, Jim was the captain, and it was his personal responsibility to make sure around a third of the crew didn't die. Two, Spock's readings on the planet below would be accurate enough to pinpoint ryetalyn in a timely and efficient manner. Three, Bones was the only one qualified enough to formulate the antidote, and he might need Spock's further assistance.

The fourth reason, unofficially speaking, was that Jim hadn't been willing to let Spock and Bones remain vulnerable to infection. The longer he could keep them off the ship, the better. However, even taking them with him had proved to be a calculated risk.

That hovering attack-robot should have been the first hint.

* * *

Those fresh works of art in the masters' own hands should have been the second.

Who could have blamed him, really, for indulging Spock's quiet, envious wonder? It had been equal parts pleasure and fascination, permitting his friend, First Officer, _lover_ to indulge such fancies as he would, under typical circumstances, claim not to have. The fascination carried with it a darker side, an intimate knowledge of weakness. Spock envied Flint his possessions. Coveted them. _Longed_ for such a rare opportunity as to play undiscovered Bach straight from the page.

He'd gotten that wish, at least, and Jim had been all too happy to dance with Rayna. She fascinated him, with her calm, yet troubled bearing and startling intelligence. There was something Flint hadn't been telling them, Jim had been sure of it. He'd thought that if he kept at Rayna for long enough, he'd be able to figure it out. And to help her, of course, so she'd help them in return. There was always that.

His innuendoes had come at a price. Spock had been watching him closely.

The composition had made him work, no question of it: how many years, Jim had wondered, had it been since he'd set those uncanny hands on a Terran piano? He'd been suffering from the distraction of trying to keep tabs on Jim's interlude with Rayna, that much had been obvious. His mistrustful glances and heightened tendency to hover hadn't gone unnoticed. Even Bones had seemed to be affected by the steadily rising unease of the situation. Spock's distress had been almost palpable.

Jim had regretted that kiss he'd placed on Rayna's cheek almost instantly. She was beautiful, yes, and charming: the sister, or even the daughter, he'd never have. And it was clear that she was falling desperately, head-over-heels in fascination with him. He'd tried not to call it love, not yet. Although he _had_ loved her a little already.

If she'd had sense enough to pay attention, she'd have learned more from Spock.

* * *

The moment Spock had seen Rayna's hand fall from her lips in astonishment, Jim had known for certain that he'd be catching hell for his recklessness until Spock felt he'd proved he was sufficiently sorry. Had it been so terrible, he wondered, the desire to let Rayna glimpse the kind of love she'd never known?

Spock had seemed to think so. His lecturing had never come across even half as severe, half as _desperate_. Looking past the stern mask and into those pleading eyes, Jim had felt a measure of self-loathing that transcended even the blame he'd placed upon himself for the loss of so many lives in a few short years' time. Had he thought, perhaps, that in saving Rayna, in offering her an awareness of freedom and of life beyond those walls, that he'd somehow redeem the dead?

"Jim," Spock had said when the argument was over, his voice soft and pleading. "Please, reconsider this. Haven't we learned how unwise it is to interfere?"

And as much as he'd wanted to reach out, to touch, to reassure, he'd hardened himself against Spock's anxiety and insisted upon seeing through the thing he'd started. It was why he'd ended up alone with her again, this time in the lab, and had been drawn into that second kiss. Had drawn that damned robot's second attack.

Spock had repaid him by saving both of their lives. Shame piled upon shame.

* * *

They'd seen scenarios like it before, but the android bodies had come as a shock.

Jim had envied Spock his grim, calm acceptance—and had even fleetingly hated him for the knowing flash of _I-told-you-so_ that lay beneath his every glance. Yes, he had known something was amiss and had pursued it, what when Jim had been content to go on indulging his fascination with Rayna. Upon discovering her multitude of previous versions, his fascination had turned to abject fear. What _was_ she, truly? Had he been lured into another insidious trap? And, worst of all, what had he done to Spock?

Naturally, Flint had offered an explanation. Jim had taken little comfort in it. Of all the entanglements he'd ever willingly walked into, being used to fine-tune the emotional impulses of an intelligent humanoid construct probably took the cake.

Spock had shown no pleasure in Flint's confession of his identities down through the millennia. If anything, Jim had pitied the disillusionment that had replaced his smugly troubled demeanor. They'd been even, then, or at least Jim had preferred to think so.

He hadn't wept for Rayna's death, although he'd fought for her. Regardless of love, the issue had ultimately been her independence. If she had survived, she would have won it—would have been free to return with them to the _Enterprise_ , to discover the horrors of protracted heartbreak at the hands of a man who'd promised too much.

Some things just didn't bear considering.

*

Jim sometimes caught glimpses of memories, like ancient glossy photographs viewed through a thick layer of ice. No sooner did he attempt to pursue them than the ice melted, carrying the images away with it. It was a strange metaphor, perhaps mined from long-ago nightmares best forgotten. He'd always suffered from vivid dreams.

During his physical examinations, Bones had taken to muttering about selective amnesia, how it was the _strangest_ thing. At the most recent instance, Jim had asked him what he meant. Bones had brushed him off ("Never mind; you're goddamned lucky, if you ask me!") and gone about his business with the cold, outdated stethoscope that he used when he thought Jim deserved a bit of torture.

Spock, who liked the stethoscope even less, had little to say on the matter.

"It's not uncommon in humans," he remarked, tracing Jim's collarbone thoughtfully. Whatever had been troubling him in those fleeting recollections, there was no sign of it now. If anything, he'd been so lavishly attentive in private of late that Jim wondered what he'd done to deserve it. They _had_ all nearly lost their lives.

Jim opened one eyelid. "What's not uncommon?"

"The blocking of memories that would, in time, prove painful or traumatic."

"Spock, I somehow doubt that mission was going to scar me for life. In the end, we got the ryetalyn, and Bones knocked together an antidote in time. Flint was difficult, but..." Jim frowned. "It all works out. Pity about the old man himself, though."

Abruptly, Spock leaned in and kissed him with impressive fervor.

"Yes," he murmured at length. "He will die soon. And with him, countless treasures."

"Do you really believe him?" Jim asked, catching his breath.

"Perhaps. It seems logical, although such genius is often capable of...imitation."

Something about the way he hesitated over the last word made Jim shiver, but Spock wouldn't let him. And for as long as Spock was content to hold him this close, he'd be there in spite of the risks they took daily, ghosts and memories be damned.


End file.
